RECOLLECTIONS 
OF AN IRISH JUDGE 




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RECOLLECTIONS 
OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

PRESS, BAR AND PARLIAMENT 



if^ /' BY 

M<!> M'D^ BODKIN, K.C. 



WITH 25 ILLUSTRATIONS, INCLUDING A PORTRAIT 
OF THE AUTHOR IN PHOTOGRAVURE 



NEW YORK 
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1 '"1 1 ^ 






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Printed in Great Britain 



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CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 

I, Old Times in the West of Ireland 



II. Early Recollections 

III. The Reporters' Room . 

IV. Work and Play 
V. Longbow and Bull .... 

VI. Dick Adams 

VII. Father James Healy 
VIII. Father Tom Burke 
IX. Called to the Bar 
X. Echoes of the Four Courts 
XL Bar and Bench .... 
XII. Law and Levity .... 

XIII. Laughter in Court 

XIV. Practice at the Bar 

XV. A New Departure .... 
XVI. The Humours of Coercion . 
XVII. The Parnell Split 

XVIII. Parliament 

XIX. Experiences of an Irish M.P. . 
XX. Humours of the House of Commons 
XXI. The Rules of the Game 
XXII. The Terrors of the House 

XXIII. Front Benchers . . . • 

XXIV. Portraits from Memory 
XXV. The Editorial "We" 



PAGE 
I 

13 
26 

35 

45 

51 

62 

71 
83 
94 
108 
122 

131 
140 

147 
152 
168 
179 
189 
198 
208 
216 
224 
233 
245 



vi RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 



CHAPTER 



PAGE 



XXVI. Two Men Worth Knowing . . . . . 252 

XXVII. DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE . . . 258 

XXVIII. Justin McCarthy 268 

XXIX. Random Reviews 276 

XXX. Bohemia 281 

XXXI. Hamlets I have Met 286 

XXXII. More about Actors 291 

XXXIII. Still on the Stage 300 

XXXIV. Rome and America 309 

XXXV. The World's Press Parliament .... 317 

XXXVI. Rival Attractions 323 

XXXVII. A Delightful Visit 331 

XXXVIII. Roosevelt at Home ...... 336 

XXXIX. Appointed a Judge 342 

XL. On the Bench . . 351 

Index 361 



wAa m n t imt u r ■ m mm 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING PAGE 

M. M'D. Bodkin, K.C. . . . . Photogravure Frontispiece 

Thomas Bodkin, F.R, C.S.I 4 

" The Poor Man's Doctor." 

"Big Joe McDonnell" 8 

Of Doo Castle, one time M.P. for Mayo. 

The Rev, William Delany, S.J., Ex-Provincial .... 20 

Rev. Father James Healy 62 

Parish priest of Little Bray. 

Rev. Father Tom Burke, O.P • /O 

Frank McDonough, Q.C 90 

The Parnell Trial, Dublin 94 

Sergeant Armstrong 100 

" The Big Sergeant." 

Baron Dowse 116 

Lord Morris 122 

One time Chief Justice of Common Pleas, Ireland. 

Mr. Justice James Murphy 126 

The Late County Court Judge Webb 134 

Sir Edward Sullivan 13S 

Late Lord Chancellor of Ireland. 

A New Method of Government 148 

Our Private Secretary 150 

At It Again 162 

Minister and Midwife 164 

Charles Stewart Parnell 168 

vii 



viii RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

FACING PAGE 

The Rt. Hon. W. E. Gladstone 190 

Michael Davitt 238 

Justin McCarthy 268 

Lord O'Brien of Kilfenora 342 

Lately retired Lord Chief Justice of Ireland. 

Court House, Ennis, Co. Clare 352 

The Quilty Heroes 356 



RECOLLECTIONS OF 
AN IRISH JUDGE 

CHAPTER I 
OLD TIMES IN THE WEST OF IRELAND 

An apology — ^The origin of the Twelve Tribes — "The poor man's doctor" 
— Sir Dominick Corrigan — Convivial Connaught — The padded table — 
Tom Bodkin of Kilclooney — Hunting the wren — " Big Joe McDonnell " 
of Doo Castle — " Ready money for the lemons " — A twenty-one 
tumblers man — "Sabbatarians" — A fox hunt by moonlight — The 
culprit on the bench. 

I WANT to begin with an explanation and an apology 
instead of a preface, and though I now put the few 
words I have to say on that head at the beginning of the 
first chapter where they have the best chance of being 
read, I wrote them when the book was finished that they 
might indicate not merely what I meant to do, but as 
far as I could judge what I had done. 

This book must not be taken as anything in the nature 
of an autobiography; it has no such presumptuous pre- 
tension. Its purpose is only to describe the interesting 
men whom I have met, events I have witnessed, and 
stories I have heard during a long and varied career at the 
Press, Bar and Parliament. 

Like the fly on the wheel, if I did not help much in the 
revolution, I had a chance of seeing how it went round. 
I have been mixed up in many exciting events, I have 
met many remarkable men, Gladstone and other leaders 
of the Liberal parties were familiar to me during my time 
in Parliament. 



2 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

With Parnell I had at least one very remarkable inter- 
view. Justin McCarthy, William O'Brien, John Dillon, 
T. P. O'Connor and other Irish leaders I can count as 
personal friends. I had an interview with Leo XIII at 
the Vatican, and with Roosevelt at the White House, I 
think I may fairly claim a imique experience of the 
Stage, All the great actors of the present generation I 
have seen on the boards and gossiped with behind the 
scenes. Of the Irish Judges and leaders of the Irish Bar 
I have many stories to tell from hearsay or from personal 
knowledge. Some slight description of the manner of life 
on the Irish Press and at the Irish Bar may not be wholly 
without interest, and possibly a few new characters worth 
knowing may be introduced to the reader. 

Though I have tried hard to keep myself and my 
belongings out of the book, it was inevitable that the 
first personal pronoun should occasionally obtrude itself, 
especially in earlier years when "I" was the centre of 
the world and the surrounding circle very small. 

For the rest', it is gossip rather than history I have 
written, giving the go-by for the most part to serious 
events and retailing the humorous stories or amusing 
incidents that have come my way. 

My father was a Bodkin of Galway. We have it on the 
high authority of Lever that 

The Bodkins sneeze at the grim Chinese, 
Tkey come from the Phoenicians. 

Moreover, t-hey boast themselves one of the famous 
Twelve Tribes of Ye Ancient Citie of Galway. Many and 
various are the accounts of the origin of the Tribes. I 
only remember one which the great preacher and famous 
humorist, Father Tom Burke, o.P., of whom I shall have 
more to say later on, used to tell with infinite relish. 
It was a version, I may add, not popular with members of 
the Tribes. 

In the good old times a Spanish ship was wrecked off 
the coast of Galway. The crew were rescued and brought 
before the King of Connaught, who was a mighty monarch 
in those days, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed 



OLD TIMES IN THE WEST OF IRELAND 3 

in the least like the King of Connaught. There was, how- 
ever, one serious defect in his gorgeous get-up. Like Achilles, 
he was vulnerable in the heel. In plain English, the re- 
splendent sovereign went barefoot. It is not surprising, 
therefore, that he cast covetous eyes at the stout leather 
brogues in which the feet of the Spanish prisoners were 
encased. Pair after pair he tried them on himself vainly, 
as the wicked sisters tried on the slipper of Cinderella. The 
feet of the monarch were of royal proportions, and the 
kingly toes could not be squeezed into any one of the 
brogues. 

Thereupon he returned the prisoners to the King of 
Spain with handsome presents for his brother sovereign, 
and a request, couched in the choicest language of diplomacy, 
that his Majesty of Spain should send in return twelve pairs 
of the biggest brogues in his kingdom. Either the Connaught 
King's handwriting was illegible or an initial letter got 
obliterated by the salt water. This much, at least, is certain : 
when the document came to the eyes of the King of Spain 
it read " twelve pairs of the biggest rogues in Spain." 
Very willingly the King complied with the strange request, 
the rogues were collected by proclamation and the 
cargo dispatched. Thus were founded the Twelve Tribes 
of Galway. But it is not always safe to tell this story in 
mixed company in Connaught. 

I come of a medical family. My father was a doctor, my 
elder and only brother was a doctor, my three brothers-in- 
law were doctors and my eldest nephew belonged to the 
same profession. 

My father's name and fame are still remembered through 
the length and breadth of the western province, where he 
was affectionately known as " the poor man's doctor " by 
reason of his special kindness to the poor. From his resi- 
dence in Tuam his practice extended to the remotest corner 
of Galway and Mayo, even to the outlying islands of Arran, 
Clare and Achill. In the days before railways he frequently 
drove sixty miles on a relay of outside cars to visit a patient. 

As a boy I had often accompanied him on many of his 
calls, and so learnt to know and love western peasants. 



4 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

who in instinct and manner are the finest gentlemen in the 
world. 

It is perhaps not unnatural that I should overestimate 
my father's reputation, but I am fortified by the opinion 
of his class-fellow and lifelong friend, Sir Dominick Corri- 
gan, who once said to me, " If your father had settled in 
Dublin he would have beaten us all." 

As no sort of sequence is attempted in these roundabout 
recollections, as well here as elsewhere may be said a few 
words about the most famous physician of his generation. 
Sir Dominick Corrigan, as I remember him in the very 
height of his fame, was the least affected or pretentious of 
men. The mysticism of the medical man had no attraction 
for him. He did not believe in humouring the hypochon- 
driac, however rich or important. 

On one occasion he was visited by a very wealthy old 
gentleman, who regarded his own ailments, real or 
imaginary, the one thing of supreme importance in the 
universe. 

The patient began a history of his health, dating from 
his earliest childhood. Sir Dominick listened blandly for 
a moment, then lapsed into a brown study. Before the 
narrative had carried the patient through a boyish attack 
of the measles the great doctor stood up, shook hands, 
wished him a cordial good morning, pocketed his fee and 
rang the bell for the next of the expectant crowd that 
all day and every day thronged his parlours. 

As the utterly bewildered patient was being bowed 
politely to the door he found courage to stammer out : 

" Is there anything I should take. Doctor ? " 

" Yes, yes," said the famous doctor, " take a little seakale 
occasionally with your dinner." 

" Is there nothing else ? " gasped the dumbfounded 
patient. 

" You may have a little melted butter over it," said the 
doctor. 

My father used to tell a story of his old friend that ran 
somewhat on the same lines. A very able, but simple- 
minded bishop, the late Dr. Duggan, by his advice visited 



j*^yAy:^ 




Thomas Bodkin, F.R.C.S.I. 

" The Poor Man's Doctor." 



OLD TIMES IN THE WEST OF IRELAND 5 

Sir Dominick while in Dublin and returned enraptured 
with the skill of the great physician. 

" You country doctors," said his lordship, " are well 
enough in your way, but in diagnosis and treatment you are 
not in it with the great Dublin consultants who trust to diet, 
not physic. What do you think Corrigan ordered me to 
take at my breakfast ? " 

" I am sure I cannot say." 

" Toast." 

" Well, there was nothing very recondite about that." 

" Perhaps not, but was I to have it buttered or un- 
buttered ? " 

" Unbuttered." 

" Wrong." 

" Buttered then, I suppose." 

" On one side or on both ? " 

" On both." 

" Wrong again. He specially insisted that it should be 
buttered only on one side. It is an apparently unimportant 
detail like that that the nice discrimination of the really 
great physician is displayed." 

On another occasion my father brought Corrigan down 
specially to see a wealthy patient of his in the County of 
Galway. Sir Dominick was much more confident than my 
father of the patient's recovery. Still, with the doctor's 
proverbial caution he declined to commit himself. " In a 
week's time," he said, " I expect he will be completely out 
of danger." Within a week's time the patient was dead. 
When Sir Dominick met my father some time after he 
inquired : 

" Well, Bodkin, how is our patient ? " 

" Dead." 

" You don't tell me so. I suppose his people regard me 
as an absolute fraud ? " 

" On the contrary, they consider you a prophet ; a medical 
magician." 

" In the name of wonder, why ? " 

" Do you remember what you told them ? " 

" That the patient would recover." 



6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" No, you said in a week's time he would be out of danger." 

" Well ? " 

" He died the last hour of the last day of the week. They 
are convinced if he had lived another hour he would have 
been safe." 

One other story may be slipped in here characteristic of 
the genial Corrigan's good-humour. He had for a patient 
a prominent solicitor named Meldon, a contemporary of his 
own, and like himself a martyr to well-earned gout. Corrigan 
advised him to abstain from champagne : he took the advice, 
and his gout almost entirely disappeared. It chanced, 
however, some months later, that he was dining at a big 
public banquet side by side with his physician. The cham- 
pagne was of an attractive brand, but Meldon reluctantly 
covered his glass with his hand as the bottle came round. 
To his amazement Corrigan's glass was regularly filled and 
drained. Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. 

" Corrigan," he began, " didn't you tell me champagne 
was bad for gout ? " 

" So it is. How is your gout since you gave it up ? " 

" Almost gone. But " 

" Well ? " 

" You are as great a victim to the gout as ever I was." 

" Greater, my dear fellow, greater." 

" Then why in the devil's name do you drink champagne? " 

"I will answer your question, Meldon, by another. Which 
do you prefer, your health or your champagne ? " 

" My health, of course." 

" Well, I prefer my champagne." 

There was no more to be said. 

My father had many stories to tell of the rollicking, 
devil-may-care gentry of Galway and Mayo, stories which 
acquit Charles Lever of the charge of exaggeration. The two 
chief heroes of the stories were John Bodkin of Kilclooney, 
M.P. for the County of Galway, and " Big Joe McDonnell," 
M.P., of Doo Castle (aptly so named), member for the County 
of Mayo. 

In those days it was a common custom after the ladies 
had retired from dinner to lock the door on the inside and 



OLD TIMES IN THE WEST OF IRELAND 7 

throw the key out of the window. Then every man was 
compelled, in the immortal words of Betsy Prig, " to drink 
fair," A pint of salt water was the penalty for refusing a 
bumper of claret at every round of the decanter. Is it to 
be wondered at that many of the guests spent the remnant 
of the night on the carpet under the dining-table ? Nor 
were these customs wholly confined to the West. I have 
now in my possession a vast round table of shiny black 
mahogany with a huge mahogany trunk for its central 
pillar. It is reputed to have been the dining-table of Lord 
Mountjoy, which I deported from his former mansion in 
Henrietta Street. When it first came into my possession 
the under edges were carefully padded with worn green 
baize. I can find no other explanation of the padding of 
the table than the host's considerate regard for the heads 
of his guests when they chanced to fall under it. 

The gentry of Connaught were indeed as high-spirited 
and irresponsible as schoolboys. One St. Stephen's Day, 
about three-quarters of a century ago, my father was one of a 
large house party at Kilclooney. In the County of Galway 
St. Stephen's Day was always the great fox-hunting meet 
of the year. On that particular day the "Galway Blazers" 
were to draw the famous fox covers of Kilclooney, but the 
previous night a black frost had set in and made fox-hunting 
impossible. 

Here were a score of red-coated gentlemen with nothing ; 
absolutely nothing, to do. For a while they grouped them- 
selves impatiently at the windows in vain expectation of a 
thaw. Suddenly a bright idea struck the host. " Come on, 
boys," he cried, " we'll hunt the wren ! " 

The suggestion was received with a whoop of welcome, 
and the whole party of the chief men of the county sallied 
forth in clamorous pursuit of the " King of All Birds," 
whom they chased through hedges and ditches till sundown, 
returning with a wholesome appetite and an aU-consuming 
thirst to dinner at Kilclooney. \ 

The Galway gentleman was a firm believer in the philos- 
ophy of Horace, he took the good which to-day had to give 
him with no thought of yesterday or to-morrow. John 



8 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Bodkin of Kilclooney was involved in a Chancery suit in 
which a valuable slice of his large estate was at stake. An 
essential affidavit was to be sworn by the owner of the 
property. Early one morning his solicitor drove about six 
miles from Tuam to Kilclooney to find his erratic client at 
home. 

" Go into Tuam to swear an affidavit ! " protested John 
Bodkin ; " quite impossible, my dear fellow. It's the best 
day for trout that has come this year " (he was the best 
fly fisher in Galway). " We may not have another like it 
for twelve months." 

The solicitor, however, helped by my father, over-per- 
suaded him. He actually got on the car for the drive, but 
as the horse was starting he shouted, " Wait a moment ! " 

Then plunging through the open door of the room he was 
pleased to call his study, he picked up his trout-rod and 
vanished through the back door into the open world beyond. 
There were fish to be caught, and affidavit and estate 
might go hang. 

Even John Bodkin of Kilclooney, however, pales his 
ineffectual fire before " Big Joe McDonnell " of Doo Castle. 
For many years he had represented his county in Parliament 
without even once opening his lips in the House. Politics 
apart, the position of Member of Parliament was very useful 
to Joe. He found the immunity from debt which it conferred 
particularly convenient. For Joe always abounded in 
creditors. The righteous indignation of the Irish landlords 
of our own time — when the tenants obstructed the " processes 
of the law " — is a little comical when it is remembered that 
a favourite landlord amusement in the old days was to 
make the process server swallow the writs he came to serve. 
A Dublin wine merchant, from whom Joe had carried off 
to Doo Castle (on credit of course) a canal boat of his 
choicest wines, began after a time, possibly made nervous 
from echoing rumours of Joe's reputation, to press hard 
for payment. 

Joe responded by a cordial invitation to visit him at Doo 
Castle, and the merchant went. It was a scene of open-door 
rollicking hospitality. The good merchant's choicest wines 




"Big Joe McDonnell" 

Of Doo Castle, one time M.P. for Mayo. 



OLD TIMES IN THE WEST OF IRELAND 9 

were drunk by the jovial host and guests in tumblerfuls. 
After a few days he could endure it no longer. By this time 
he had almost abandoned hope of payment, but he thought 
he might make some salvage from the wreck. One morning 
he appealed to Joe in the room he called his study at Doo 
Castle. 

" Mr. McDonnell," he said, " may I have a word with 
you ? " 

" Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. Only too delighted." 

" Well, I am a little embarrassed, and you may help me 
out. I have an order from a very old customer for some of 
the vintage wines I have supplied to you ; unfortunately I 
have none in stock, so I thought you might perhaps let me 
have some back. I would allow you of course the full price 
in your account." 

" That's kind of you, very kind indeed." 

" I would not inconvenience you for the world, but it 
seems to me that the gentlemen I have met here would just 
as soon have whiskey punch as those wines." 

" As soon have it ! " interrupted Joe ; " they would a great 
deal sooner have it, if they could get it." 

" Then in the name of goodness," cried the merchant, 
startled out of his prim propriety, " why not let them have 
whiskey punch instead of costly wine ? " 

" My dear sir," whispered Joe confidentially, with his 
hand on the other's knee, " where do you think would I find 
the ready money for the lemons ? " 

As I have said, Joe never opened his lips in the House of 
Commons, but there was no more persuasive speaker on 
the hustings, none more adroit in the art of bamboozling a 
crowd. 

Let a single illustration suffice. On one occasion Joe, 
standing as the champion of the " ould faith " in Mayo, 
was caught by a horrified supporter eating meat on Friday. 
Instantly his popularity departed. There was a shout of 
derision when he appeared on a platform. " Give him an 
egg, boys, to take the taste of mate off his mouth ! " and an 
egg whizzed past his ear. " Big Joe " was equal to the occa- 
sion. He drew a letter from his pocket. 



10 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" Does anyone here," he roared out in a voice of thunder 
that dominated the tumult, " does anyone here know the 
handwriting of His Hohness Pope Pius the Ninth ? " 

There was a moment's pause. No one seemed to know the 
handwriting of His Hohness. Without waiting for an 
answer, Joe read the letter at the top of his voice : — 

" My dear Joe, 

" I am well pleased to hear you are fighting for the 
old faith down in Mayo. You are neither to fast nor abstain 
while the good work is in hand. 

" With kindest regards for yourself and the boys that are 
helping you, I remain, 

" Yours very sincerely, 

" Pope Pius IX." 

A roar of applause followed the name, and " Big Joe " 
was once more the popular hero. 

" Big Joe McDonnell " drank twenty-one tumblers of 
punch regularly every night after his dinner, so I have 
heard from a dozen eyewitnesses. But I was privileged to 
see a letter written a short time before his death, in his 
seventy-sixth year, in which he strongly recommended 
temperance to the young men of Ireland. There was this 
much justification for his homily, that no man ever saw 
him drunk or even under the influence of liquor. The per- 
nicious habit of tippling in the morning or afternoon was 
unknown to the wild gentry of Ireland. They tasted no 
stimulant before dinner, but they dined about four o'clock 
and after that the supply of liquor was unlimited. 

In those days there was amongst the Irish gentry in the 
West a class called " Sunday men," and to that class for 
many years of his life " Big Joe " belonged. " Sunday men " 
during weekdays were beleaguered in their fortresses by an 
army of bailiffs, but Sunday was to them veritably a day of 
liberty and rest. The story goes that " Big Joe " being hotly 
pursued by a bailiff went to earth in the hospitable house of 
the attorney who had taken out the judgment against him. 
There he dined, drank punch, played cards and won heavily. 
But a little after midnight he said to his host, " It's time for 



OLD TIMES IN THE WEST OE IRELAND ii 

me to be going home. It is Sunday morning now, and I 
have already kept that poor fellow of yours too long waiting 
outside in the cold." 

On another occasion Joe inaugurated a fox hunt by 
moonlight. There was danger that the huntsmen might be 
hunted if they appeared in the daytime, so they hunted and 
killed their fox by the light of a full moon and returned 
gaily to an early breakfast in Doo Castle. 

Justice as administered by those country squires, who in 
those days monopolized the magisterial bench, was a 
curious production. The " code under the palm tree " was 
not less hampered by any settled system of law. Yet there 
is a story extant in the West of Ireland that proves that 
those magistrates of the old school realized the responsi- 
bility of their office. 

Mr. Burke was a magistrate of large property and position 
in his county, but he was not exempt from the failings of 
his class and time. On festive occasions when flustered with 
flowing cups, or full of supper and distempering drinks, he 
gave some trouble to the police. 

When summoned before himself, the only magistrate 
that habitually sat in the local court, the culprit on the 
bench was accustomed to cross-examine the indulgent police 
sergeant as to the character of the offence. 

" You say the man was drunk, sergeant. Was he in- 
capable ? " 

" I wouldn't go as far as that, your worship." 

" Did he resist the police ? " 

" Not what you would call resist." 

" Remember you are on your oath." 

" Well, there was a bit of a scrimmage." 

" Disgraceful, disgraceful. How often has this man been 
before me ? " 

The charge sheets were examined and disclosed a number 
of previous convictions. " An habitual offender," was the 
magistrate's stern comment from the bench. " I fear I 
must inflict a sharp term of imprisonment." 

The sergeant pleaded for mercy, and ultimately a fine 
was imposed with a stern caution to the culprit as to what 



12 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

was likely to happen if he was again brought before the 
court. 

The popular story runs that " Big Joe's " assets consisted 
of a flute, a bagpipes and an Irish setter. It is certain he 
was an accomplished player on the bagpipes. His bagpipes 
came into possession of his granddaughter, Miss D'Arcy, 
who presented them to the National Museum. It is said 
that on one occasion " Big Joe " determined to enliven the 
dull routine of the House of Commons by a spirited tune 
on his favourite pipes, and with this intent had carried his 
instrument with him into the front lobby, but was captured 
by his friends at the door of the legislative chamber. 



CHAPTER II 
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 

Narrow escapes — Efforts of memory — " Wages, not punishment " — 
Keeping the peace — Innocent arson — Father Delany — "A New De- 
parture in CathoUc Education " — A question of honour — " Our Bill " — 
" Barred out." 

THERE is a strong temptation to set down here some- 
thing of the thoughts, feehngs, incidents and enjoy- 
ment of my young days. Looking back as one looks from 
a distance on a valley on which the sunshine is smiling, 
those days of one's youth are so vivid, so real, that one is 
apt to forget how little interest they have for outsiders. 
Besides, I am pledged to brevity. I am writing not as an 
actor, but as a spectator ; I am telling of things seen and 
heard, and I will compress the days of my youth into as 
few pages as possible. 

When I was just two years old, so I have been told, I 
was industriously engaged in humble imitation of the 
gardener sowing seed on the broad flags in front of our 
house in Tuam, in confident hope of an abundant harvest. 
I went over the verge, tumbled down a flight of stone steps 
and gashed my temple on a sharp angle at the bottom. 
The whole incident is as clear in my mind as if it happened 
yesterday. I vividly remember my mother sitting with me 
in her lap, holding the wound together while the servant 
scoured the town for my father. Then darkness closed 
round me, and I remember nothing else for years. A deep 
dinge over my eyebrow remains as a memento of the 
incident. 

Just such another accident may be mentioned, though a 
little out of its order. I wonder how many reckless boys 
have had a similar experience ! It chanced when I was 

13 



14 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

about ten years old my father one day brought home a 
revolver, a queer, stumpy, old-fashioned thing quite unlike 
the modern weapon. There were six barrels all the same 
length revolving on a pivot, and the muzzle looked like a 
circular section of honeycomb. But it was good enough 
to fire boyish imagination already superheated by the Wild 
West stories of Mayne Reid and Fenimore Cooper. I watched 
my father practise with it in the garden, I discovered where 
he had hidden it in his study. Then one afternoon I found 
myself there alone with the fascinating weapon in my hand. 
It was uncapped, which to my boyish mind meant it was 
unloaded. But I was not to be cheated out of the treat I 
had promised myself. I set the head of a match to the 
nipple, pressed the circle of six barrels to my forehead and 
tugged at the trigger. Luckily for me the improvised cap 
dropped off with the jerk. Having carefully replaced it, I 
put the pistol between my knees and pulled hard with two 
fingers. The barrels revolved, and the cock rose and fell. 
There was a stunning report, and the room was filled with 
the smoke and pungent smell of gunpowder. When I re- 
covered from my terror I discovered a little round bullet- 
hole through the bottom of the shutter instead of through 
my foolish head. Strangely enough, the report was not 
heard outside the closed door of the study. I never confessed 
and I was never discovered, but I fancy I will never again 
be so near death till I die. 

If I have any qualification at all for the task I have here 
set myself, it is a memory curiously effective and defective. 
What it catches it catches easily and holds, but then there 
are many things it never catches at all. I find it almost 
impossible to remember a name, a date or a place. But 
anything else I read, hear or see I can recall and retain 
with curious accuracy. In my younger days I could 
repeat a long poem verbatim after one or two readings. 
Later on, as a reporter, without a single note I could write 
two columns and a half of a three-column speech, a great 
part in the words of the speaker. This faculty, as may be 
imagined, was very serviceable to a newspaper writer. I 
seem to have been born with this mental equipment. 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 15 

In yet one other respect the child was father to the man. 
I was the most untidy of children, and the good nuns who 
were my earliest guides in the paths of knowledge were 
continually aghast at my performance and appearance. 

There was an old-fashioned well in the convent grounds 
where a bucket was let down by a rope and windlass to 
the water far down at the bottom of the deep, black hole. 
In a moment of inspiration, one of the good Sisters threatened 
that if I came dirty to school again I should be let down 
in the bucket and washed in the mysterious water in the 
bottom of the well. Little the timid lady appreciated the 
vagaries of a boy's mind. My imagination was fired at the 
prospect of the adventure. To me it was wages and not 
punishment. Next morning on my way to school I qualified 
at every puddle I met for the delightful expedition, pre- 
senting myself before the eye of the horrified nun a mass 
of mud, eagerly claiming the punishment of my mis- 
conduct. 

From the convent school I passed at a very early age to 
the Christian Brothers. But here after a few months my 
education was interrupted by a very curious incident that 
is perhaps worth recording as indicative of the sectarian 
feeling in those days, the injustice it inflicted and the re- 
prisals it provoked. 

At that time sectarianism was rampant in Tuam. There 
was in the town a Protestant vicar, the reverend Mr. Sey- 
more, who felt he had a mission for the forcible conversion 
of benighted Papists. The Catholic festival of Corpus 
Christ i was always celebrated by a procession in the grounds 
of the Catholic Cathedral, with the Blessed Sacrament 
carried under a canopy. All the inhabitants of the town 
and of the neighbouring country, men and women, young 
and old, flocked to this festival. On one occasion it was 
subjected to a startling interruption. As the procession, 
chanting a solemn strain with the Host in its brilliant 
setting exposed to the reverent gaze of the worshippers, 
moved slowly along the Cathedral grounds, the people were 
aware of the wild figure of the militant vicar perched on a 
barrel in front of the great iron gates. The barrel on which 



i6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

he stood was stuffed full of Bibles for the use of his expected 
converts. Of a sudden he waved his arms over his head and 
shouted in a voice of thunder : 

" Repent, you blind idolaters, who worship a wafer for 
a God ! " 

What else he would have said was never known. There 
was a rush of the angry crowd, the barrel was stove in and 
the flying missionary pelted with Bibles through the streets 
of the town. It is more than half a century ago, but I 
remember it more vividly than if it were yesterday. The 
wild figure in full flight with long coat-tails streaming in the 
wind, and the shower of Bibles with the leaves fluttering and 
torn that followed him. 

When the feast of Corpus Christi again approached the 
enterprising vicar applied for police protection, fearing, as 
he swore, a breach of the peace. The demand was granted, 
and fifty extra police were drafted into the town. It 
happens that my father's house stands in the direct route, 
almost midway between the Protestant vicarage and the 
Catholic Cathedral. Early in the morning of Corpus Christi, 
the District Inspector encamped his forces on the stone 
steps and along the railings facing our house. Later on 
the worthy representative of the Church militant made his 
appearance, armed to the teeth with Bibles. The District 
Inspector politely accosted him : 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Seymore," he said, " but I 
cannot allow you to pass." 

The amazement and indignation of the vicar passed all 
bounds. 

" I have a duty to perform," he said. " A sacred duty 
to rebuke idolatry." 

" And I," retorted the inspector, " have a duty to per- 
form, to prevent a breach of the peace." 

" You were sent here to protect me from violence." 

" I will prevent you from provoking it. The best way 
to keep the peace is to keep you where you are." 

In vain were the protests and threats of spiritual and 
temporal punishment. The unfortunate vicar was hoist 
with his own petard. All day he paced up and down the 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 17 

dusty road in front of the imperturbable police, like Carle- 
ton's little tailor, " dry mouldy for want of a beating." 

This same vicar was grand vizier to Bishop Plunkett, who 
lived in a handsome palace with beautifully wooded grounds 
close to the town. Amongst the Catholics of Tuam, who 
formed the overwhelmhig majority of the population, the 
proselytizing vicar got the chief credit, or discredit, for the 
sharp practices of his lordship. 

I was in the very lowest class of the old Christian Brothers' 
school that stood on the hill on the outskirts of Tuam, 
when the catastrophe occurred which I am about to relate. 
The school had been erected at the cost of something over 
£1000 (collected amongst the Catholic townspeople), on a 
site acquired at a twenty-one years' lease from the Protes- 
tant bishop, who was head landlord of a third of the town. 
It was naturally assumed that the lease would be renewed. 
But to the surprise and indignation of the Catholics, the 
day it expired the Christian Brothers got notice to quit 
and, to add insult to injury, it was decreed that their school 
should be converted into an active branch of the Irish 
Church Mission Proselytizing Association. 

It is only fair to say that the great majority of the Pro- 
testants of the town were as indignant as the Catholics at 
the sharp practices to which the Christian Brothers were 
subjected ; but the law was the law, and there was nothing 
for it but submission. 

So the Brothers thought at least, but the boys were of a 
different opinion. In those days no National school was 
allowed by the Most Rev. Dr. McHale in the Archdiocese 
of Tuam, so the Christian Brothers had the monopoly of the 
learning in the town. They were immensely popular, not 
only with the parents, but also with the boys. The news 
of the eviction of the good Brothers awakened a ferment 
of youthful indignation, and provoked a wild project of 
revenge. 

The Christian Brothers were in due course evicted from 

the school, and for one night it remained derelict, pending 

the triumphant entrance of the missionary society. That 

night was enough. How well I remember it all ! It is painted 

c 



i8 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

on my memory with the vivid colouring of extreme child- 
hood which no scene painting of after life can rival. 

The buzzing of a vast, mysterious conspiracy was around 
me during our last day at the old Christian Brothers' 
school. 

Only the ringleaders knew exactly what the project was, 
but even the youngest of us knew that something strange, 
daring, terrible and heroic was in progress. 

After dinner that night I stole out, by arrangement with 
a larger boy, whom I met at the corner of the street, to take 
part in the conspiracy. From all sides boys converged in 
the darkness of the night on the deserted schoolhouse. 
How it happened I cannot say, or why it happened, but I 
have a suspicion that some secret influence was at work 
to keep the police of the town close in their barracks that 
night, with eyes and ears shut tight against all warnings 
from without. 

Eagerly the boys crept through broken windows into the 
deserted school, which they were wont to enter with such 
decorous reluctance. How strange and still and solemn it 
seemed, the contrast how sharp between the dismal silence 
of that night and the noisy life of the day ! For a while we 
were all abashed by the ghosts of old discipline and decorum 
that haunted the place. But the pause was a brief one, the 
calm before the storm. A hundred lucifer matches flashed 
a sudden blaze, candles were lit and the work of destruction 
begun. Oh, how delightful the conjunction of duty and 
pleasure for a small boy when breaking windows was an act 
of supreme merit, and smashing desks and chairs a most 
creditable exploit ! 

I was talking only the other day to an old schoolmate 
who, like myself when a mere child, participated in that 
glorious escapade. He has since attained a high ecclesias- 
tical position. He is the mildest and gentlest of men, but 
he remembers that scene as well as I remember it for one 
of the most delightful, tumultuous, exciting episodes of his 
life. 

Here in the sanctum of learning where we had listened 
soberly to lessons, where we had mildly obeyed the voice of 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 19 

command, where we had felt the avenging twinge of the 
cane ; here in the very home of learning and discipline we 
had one wild hour of such outrageous and tumultuous 
liberty as I verily believe no other boys have ever known 
before or since. 

We raged through the place — ink bottles flew in crashing 
showers through the windows. The furniture, desks, chairs 
and tables, was smashed to firewood and piled in great heaps 
all over the floor. The lesson-books, torn to shreds, provided 
the kindling material, and soon the entire building roared 
and blazed in one vast conflagration. 

That was a bonfire, if you like, and we danced and cheered 
round it with a will. All night it blazed on the hill, on the 
outskirts of the town ; long after we boys had been reclaimed 
by our anxious parents and slept peaceably in our beds with 
the consciousness of a good work well done, that great fire 
still blazed triumphantly, and in all the town of Tuam 
no hand could be found, Catholic or Protestant, to attempt 
its extinction. When the grey morning dawned the old 
schoolhouse was no more. 

There was a trial afterwards at the Galway Assizes of 
some of the boys who had been ringleaders in the escapade, 
but it came to nothing. A jury of Protestants and Catholics 
concurred in the acquittal. When the new schoolhouse 
came to be built for the Christian Brothers on a better site, 
the subscription was more hberal than before, and almost 
every Protestant with the exception of the vicar and bishop 
participated. 

It would seem that bigotry and intolerance were burned 
up in that big fire, for in all Ireland there is now no town 
in which all classes and creeds dwell together in more 
perfect amity than in Tuam. 

One other incident of those schooldays is perhaps worth 
recalling, as illustrating once again the peculiar memory 
that was to serve me well in after life. 

The Rev. Brother Lowe was accustomed to give us each 
day half an hour's religious instruction, admirably conceived 
and delivered. For the better enjoyment of the discourse I 
planted my arms on the desk and my face on my arms in 



20 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

the attitude of profound slumber, and listened attentively 
to the lecture. The Brother saw me. He drew the obvious, 
though as it happened erroneous, conclusion from my 
attitude, and interrupted his discourse to call out sharply : 

" Bodkin, you have not listened to a single word." 

I protested, 

" Then tell me something I have said," demanded the 
Brother sternly. 

Forthwith I commenced the lecture from the beginning, 
repeated it verbatim while the lecturer listened in dumb 
surprise, till I wound up with his final exclamation, " Bodkin, 
you have not listened to a single word." 

Forty years later the Superior-General of the Christian 
Brothers, Rev. Brother Moylan, who was present as a boy, 
reminded me of the incident, which had drifted away into 
an obscure corner of my memory where I never would have 
found it but for him. 

It is indeed a little curious how, as I write, a thousand 
memories of my young days which were asleep and for- 
gotten awake and press for recognition. My boyhood with 
all its thoughts and cares, and small adventures that seemed 
so wonderful when they happened, have reshaped them- 
selves like vivid pictures in my memory. Even now the 
trivialities of those long summers' days spent in birds- 
nesting and fishing, the snowball battles and skating are 
full of intense interest to me. I cannot reason away the 
notion that if I could tell them as they happened they would 
be of interest to readers who have like precious little memories 
of their own from which they would not part for the world. 
It is not without an effort that I compel myself to skip 
those delightful years. 

From the Christian Brothers I passed to the Jesuit College 
of TuUabeg, then perhaps the best intermediate school in 
Ireland. In the higher classes I had for master (inestimable 
advantage) the famous Jesuit, Rev. Father William Delany, 
afterwards for so many years Rector of Unive'rsity College, 
St. Stephen's Green, and Provincial of the Order, to whom 
more than to any other man Catholics are indebted for the 
boon of university education. When I first met Father 




Photo by Lafayette, Ltd , Dublin. 

The Rev. William Delany, S.J., Ex-Provincial 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 21 

Delany, a man of about thirty-five, he looked a mere boy, 
almost as young as any of his class. 

Under his guidance, study was a delight. He made us 
boys do absolutely what he wished, however seemingly 
impossible. One of our feats was a bit out of the common. 
At the public display of the college, called " the annual 
conversazione," three of us presented ourselves without 
books to repeat from memory, parse, scan and translate pas- 
sages selected at random from the second book of Virgil's 
" Mneid," a feat which we all three successfully performed. 

No one who ever knew Father Delany need be told that 
he is a man of fascinating manner. It is not easy to describe 
the charm of his voice and smile. Bigotry and prejudice 
could never survive in his company. 

Once upon a time Father Delany attended the meeting 
of the British Association, held that year in Sheffield. 
The day after his arrival he met in the offices of the Asso- 
ciation a Sheffield man who, after five minutes' talk, in- 
sisted that he should be his guest during his stay in that 
town. 

" You don't know what you ask," retorted Father 
Delany, " you don't know that I'm a Jesuit ; look out for 
your silver spoons." 

" I'll risk it," said his would-be host. 

Father Delany, however, imagined that he would have 
more personal freedom at an hotel, and declined the invita- 
tion to the manifest disappointment of the other. 

As he turned away, another Sheffield man touched him 
on the shoulder. 

" Don't be a fool," he said abruptly ; " I couldn't help 
hearing what was said just now, and you will be a fool if 
you refuse that invitation. That is the best fellow in all 
Sheffield, there is nowhere you would have half so good a 
time." 

Later in the day the invitation was cordially renewed 
and gratefully accepted, and the host justified the 
eulogium of his friend. 

Some days before the close of the Session he said to 
Father Delany, " I want to give a little dinner-party. 



22 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

You invite your friends and I will invite the most prominent 
of our townsmen to meet them." 

Father Delany declares that he never sat down to a 
more incongruous or a more delightful dinner. Amongst 
his guests were the Rev. Monsignor Molloy of the Catholic 
University, and Professor Haughton, the most brilliant and 
the most versatile of the Fellows of Trinity College. 

A little while before Professor Haughton, whose numerous 
professions included the medical, had devoted his leisure 
to devising a more merciful method of capital punishment. 

Death by strangulation he regarded as specially painful, 
and he demonstrated that a longer drop and a more flexible 
silk rope would produce instant and almost painless death 
by dislocation of the neck. 

When the experiment was first tried, however, the result 
was startling. Whether the drop was too long or the silk 
rope too pliable, the head of the criminal was shorn clean 
from the body. 

It chanced that after dinner Professor Haughton entered 
into an animated discussion with a shrewd Sheffield man, 
in which the gifted Professor had the worst of it, 

" I think we had better let the subject drop," he said at 
last. 

" How many feet, Professor ? " was the telling retort. 

At the close of the evening the host ventured on a question 
which had been perplexing the company. 

" Father Delany," he said, " none of us ever met a 
Jesuit before we met you, and we are anxious to know what 
exactly a Jesuit is. We are tiled to-night ; if you tell us 
the secret it will never go farther." 

Father Delany referred them to Dr. Johnson's definition, 
but they refused to accept it. 

At last he said, " I can only try to enlighten you by a 
little anecdote. A friend of mine, and a Jesuit like myself, 
was lately driving in the neighbourhood of Belfast. He 
had a very poor horse, which the driver stimulated by a 
torrent of abuse. 

" ' Get on, you cripple,' he cried, ' get on, you Papist, get 
on, you divil, get on, you b ^y old Jesuit ! ' 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 23 

" In a quiet interval my friend put to the driver the 
question you have put to me to-night. 

" ' I have heard you caU your horse a Jesuit/ he said ; ' can 
you tell me, my friend, what a Jesuit is ? ' 

" The man scratched his head. * Well, sir, I don't know 
precisely, but it's something a deal worse than the devil.' " 

Someone at the dinner must have broken faith, for next 
day the story with the Belfast man's definition of a Jesuit 
was published in one of the principal newspapers of 
Sheffield. 

My friendship with Father Delany stretched from my 
schooldays far into after life, and with that friendship there 
always mingled something of the affectionate reverence of 
the pupil for his favourite master. Just after I left he 
became rector of the college, and during his rectorship I 
often renewed my boyhood by a visit to old scenes and 
associations. 

About this time I earned his special favour by a pamphlet 
I wrote over the signature of " A Catholic Barrister," 
entitled " A New Departure in Catholic Education," in 
reply to some strictures not less unjust than severe on the 
Jesuit system of education which had just been published 
by the Hon. and Rev. Mr. Petre, afterwards Lord Petre. 
My reply had been provoked by the suggestion that es- 
pionage was encouraged in Jesuit schools, a suggestion to 
my own knowledge wholly opposed to the fact. The only 
instance of espionage I remember in my schooldays was 
an amateur spy informing the Higher Line Prefect, Father 
Charlie Walsh, that two boys were smoking (a high crime 
and misdemeanour) behind the ball alley. His reward for 
the information was a resounding box on the ear. 

" You little sneak," thundered the prefect, " that will 
teach you to come tale-bearing to me." 

This could hardly be called encouraging espionage. 

Another incident which occurred later under the rector- 
ship of Father Delany illustrates how honour amongst the 
boys was utilized and encouraged in the conduct of the 
school. 

It happened I was present as a visitor at the annual 



24 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

athletic sports. The most popular event of the day was a 
blindfold race, to be won by the boy who first passed 
through a pair of goal-posts a quarter of a mile from the 
starting-point. In such a race it was plain chance must 
decide, skill or speed counted for nothing at all. 
Fifty or sixty boys, their eyes bound up by the hard- 
worked head prefect, stood in a row ready and eager for 
the race. I was beside Father Delany when he walked 
down the long line of boys, their eyes bound up in variegated 
handkerchiefs that gleamed bright in the hot sunshine, one 
foot planted in front of the other ready for the start. Like 
a general reviewing his troops. Father Delany passed along. 
When he reached the centre he stopped short and cried in a 
voice that carried clear as a bell to the end of the row : 

" Remember, boys, you are on your honour that you 
cannot see." 

At the word there was a wavering and a breaking up along 
the line. A score of boys shamefacedly quitted the ranks 
and walked with self-convicting certitude to the prefect to 
be re-bandaged. So long as it was a trial of cunning between 
boy and prefect it was lawful to best the enemy ; but honour 
once invoked was a self-imposed master whose orders could 
not be evaded. 

It would be idle to deny that I was immensely proud of 
my pamphlet on Catholic Education, the first thing in the 
shape of a book for which I was responsible. It was read 
at the dinner-hour in the Jesuit refectories, in the great 
colleges both in England and Ireland. In some quarters it 
was attributed to Sir Charles Russell, and above all it 
created a new bond of sympathy between my dear old 
masters and myself. 

While on this subject I may mention another matter of 
some importance in which I was associated with Father 
Delany. He was at that time hand and glove with the 
Duke of Marlborough, Lord-Lieutenant, and his son, Lord 
Randolph Churchill, the rising hope of the Tory party. 
Lord Randolph determined on an Intermediate Education 
Act for Ireland. Father Delany was naturally called into 
council. It chanced that a little while afterwards I visited 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 25 

him at the college, and at his suggestion made a rough 
draft of the proposed measure. When we next met, the 
measure, almost unchanged, was half-way through the 
House of Commons. 

" Well, Father Delany," I said, " our Bill is going 
through." 

" Yes, Matt," he replied triumphantly, " and it is our Bill." 

I have since, at times, been tempted to repent my humble 
share in the business. The Bill, whatever its merits, has, I 
fear, helped to foster cramming and kill culture in Ireland. 
But one good thing it certainly did. By the sharp test of 
competitive examination it dissipated for ever the prevalent 
myth that the Protestant intermediate schools were superior 
to the Catholic. 

But I have got in front of my story. 

When I left TuUabeg College, I was naturally anxious 
to try my luck at a university. I fancied, rightly or 
wrongly, that I would be able to keep myself going 
at Trinity College. But my mother had strong con- 
scientious objections to the Protestant University, and we 
agreed to refer the matter to the decision of the great 
Dominican, Father Tom Burke. His verdict was conclusive. 
"No Catholic could enter Trinity College," he declared, 
"without danger of shipwreck of Faith and morals." 

So I was barred out from a university training which two 
such different men as Cardinal Newman and Macaulay had 
taught me to long for. It is true I entered the so-called 
Catholic University, which had neither charter or endowment, 
and even obtained an exhibition on matriculation, but the 
business was so wholly futile that I abandoned it before 
six months was over, sacrificing my exhibition. A smat- 
tering of Terence was the only asset derived from that 
wasted six months. The National University has, however, 
recognized the sacrifice by the honorary degree of LL.D. 



CHAPTER III 
THE REPORTERS' ROOM 

" The hieroglyphic monster " — A confiscated notebook — The slaves of 
the lamp — Tricks of the trade — Dick Adams — A slip of the pen — 
Lefroy — Guinea — " Old G." — ^Much virtue in quotation marks — 
Going to the devil with the country — " The Chiei " — Mimic and 
story-teller. 

WITHOUT further delay I entered for the Bar, and 
while learning law and eating dinners I contrived, 
by the influence of Bishop Duggan, to get a place as an 
unpaid probationer on the reporting staff of the Freeman's 
Journal. 

I have described my entrance into Press life and my 
progress in its mysteries in a novel, " White Magic," mingling 
fact with fancy as fiction writers must. But the novel is 
not so widely read that it need deter me from giving a more 
prosaic account of my experiences. 

Dickens describes how David Copperfield " tamed the 
savage hieroglyphic monster." The monster was more 
savage in his days than ours ; Pitman has improved the 
breed. All the same, I cannot truly say I ever succeeded 
in bringing shorthand into subjection. I never found it 
pleasant or easy. It was not so much that I had no teacher 
outside the text of the handbooks, for in shorthand it is 
not precept but practice that tells. In my case, however, 
practice never made perfect. At first I tried to kUl 
two birds with one stone. I translated a number of 
French books into English shorthand, and then transcribed 
the notes into English long-hand. But I soon found that 
learning shorthand by reading, or even by being read to, 
was learning to swim without entering the water. There 
was needed the living voice of the unconscious and un- 
accommodating speaker, and that necessary element many 

26 



THE REPORTERS' ROOM 27 

eloquent preachers unconsciously supplied. Never since 
have I listened to so many sermons. But it was a risky occu- 
pation, for devout old ladies regarded my note-taking as a 
profanity and jogged the hand that held the pencil with 
pious elbows. This did not matter so much in my 'prentice 
days, but later when I was out of my time and was reporting 
for the Freeman's Journal a sermon of the famous Monsignor 
Capel, a formidable old lady in black bombazine and 
mittens forcibly confiscated my notebook. Recapture was 
impossible, so the sermon was not reported verbatim, and 
the eloquent preacher when he heard the cause did not bless 
the over-zealous intervener. 

Though never a really proficient shorthand writer, I 
could stumble after a moderately slow speaker often half a 
sentence in the rear without coming to actual grief. 

Newspaper life is a subject of very general curiosity. 
Yet it is surprising how little the outside public, whom he 
so assiduously serves, knows about the life and work of a 
reporter. A man cultivates acquaintance with his doctor 
and lawyer, with whom his consultations are rarely agreeable 
and always expensive. As he reads his newspaper every 
morning he has a pleasant chat, at the cost of a halfpenny 
or a penny, with at least fifty Pressmen, of whose work and 
ways he has as little notion as Aladdin had of the domestic 
life of the slave of the lamp. The universal newspaper 
reader must now and then be troubled with a twinge of 
curiosity as to how news is collected, and by whom. 

To begin with, shorthand is the " Open Sesame " to a 
newspaper office ; for all kinds of literary work it is useful, 
for Press work it is almost essential. I am writing the rough 
copy of these reminiscences in shorthand, sitting comfortably 
in an easy chair by the fire with my notebook on my knee. 
Later on I shall transcribe them with such corrections as 
may seem advisable. I find that both thoughts and words 
come more easily when they can get down at once on the 
paper and have not to wait for each other like a confused 
crowd at a church door. 

But to the would-be reporter shorthand is not a matter of 
convenience, it is a necessity. It is the one test of com- 



28 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

petence available. For success in the profession of the 
Press the aspirant will need quickness, tact, literary aptitude 
and a smattering of universal knowledge. But these cannot 
be tested at the door. If a man can write even a hundred 
words a minute and read them at sight he is worth a trial 
as a reporter. 

But if shorthand gets him in, shorthand alone won't get 
him on. The young reporter who by virtue of his shorthand 
undertook to give a " verbatim " report of a military review 
was never a very brilliant success in his profession. 

In England Press work is specialized, the Irish reporter is 
a Jack of all trades. Within an hour he must be gay at a 
wedding and sad at a funeral, he must know something about 
everything or must at least successfully " assume a knowledge 
if he hath it not . ' ' He must lecture learnedly on every theme. 
He must teach everybody their own business — the farmer 
farming, the painter painting, the sculptor sculpture, the 
musician music, the doctor medicine, the lawyer law, and 
so through the varying phases of human occupation, 

A moral and intellectual Proteus he must be prepared to 
assume every mood that the occasion requires. There is 
nothing he must not be ready to describe at a moment's 
notice, and he must write just as much and just as little 
as may be required by his editor, dilute his thoughts into 
three columns or concentrate them into a paragraph. 

The length or brevity of his description is not to be 
regulated by his experience, knowledge or imagination, or by 
his belief in the importance or triviality of the subject, but 
simply by the amount of available space. He must measure 
his thoughts with the editor's rule, and supply three inches 
or three yards as the occasion may require. 

In the Freeman's Journal, as in every well-regulated 
Irish newspaper ofhce, there is a chief reporter, whose duty 
is to set tasks to the rest. He knows, in his own expressive 
phrase, " what's on," He keeps a record of all public 
proceedings, he has an instinct for news. Each morning 
the reporters meet the chief in the reporters' room, are 
duly " marked " in a Doomsday Book for their respective 
tasks, and are dispatched through city and country on their 



THE REPORTERS' ROOM 29 

news-collecting missions. Wherever there is anything 
interesting to be seen or heard the reporter is there, 
nothing escapes his all-pervading activity. He writes for 
a busy and curious public not a word too few, not a word 
too many, so that he who runs (for tram or train) may 
read and understand. 

A reporter is subdued to what he works in, and he becomes 
absorbed in his profession. There was a story in the 
reporting-room when I joined the staff of the Freeman's 
Journal concerning a venerable member who rejoiced in white 
hair, gold spectacles and abnormal respectability. On one 
occasion, so the legend ran, as he was crossing the ridge of old 
Carlisle Bridge he saw a man just under him sink for the 
third and last time in the mingled mud and water of the 
Liffey. Hastily he glanced at his watch as the head of the 
victim vanished. 

" My poor fellow," he exclaimed, with professional 
sympathy, " you are unfortunately too late for the evening 
paper, but 111 give you a good par. to-morrow." 

For this other story I can personally vouch. Early in my 
career I was dispatched by the " chief "to describe a novel 
and sensational performance at Hengler's Circus. Loo-Loo, a 
man dressed as a girl, was shot up by a powerful spring to 
grasp a trapeze high up in the centre of the great canvas 
dome of the circus. Rightly or wrongly I thought I de- 
tected a tremor, a certain suggestion of nervousness in the 
slim figure that stood crouching on the small platform close 
to the ground. The spring was released, and with a loud 
swish the figure shot like an arrow into the air. So swift 
was the flight, few could see the wild grasp of the distended 
fingers just miss the bar of the trapeze, or mark the strained 
body pause for a second in vacant space before it fell. 
It struck the edge of the safety net a hundred feet below 
and was jerked out into the box of the orchestra. 

There was an instant tumult among the audience, who 
stampeded from the benches across the arena. While I was 
still dizzy with the horror of the scene, not knowing if the 
victim were alive or dead, a brother Pressman whispered in 
my ear : 



30 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" That will make a good par. for the Press Association 
if we get it off at once." 

Many men of great ability were connected with the 
Freeman's Journal when I joined it on the lowest rung of 
the ladder. Amongst them was the reckless humorist Dick 
Adams, afterwards Judge Adams, of whom I have more to 
say later. Very little of his humour, however, crept into 
his articles. He was grand, solemn, almost sanctimonious. 
On religious subjects he was said, in the slang of the office, 
" to write with a quill from the wing of an archangel." 

I remember once going home with him from the office in 
the not too small hours of the morning. He had written 
an orthodox, eloquent article on the Catholic University 
Question. Now in private conversation Dick would some- 
times allude to the venerable Rector of the University, 
Monsignor Woodlock, as Monsignor Deadlock. We had 
almost reached home when a horrible suspicion smote him 
that by a slip of the pen he had introduced this pet name 
into the article. Back we trudged a weary mile through 
rain and darkness to find the suspicion was well founded. 
" Monsignor Deadlock " appeared conspicuously half a 
dozen times in the article. It was set up and stereotyped 
when we arrived, and had to be chiselled out of the plate. 

Lefroy was another of the Freeman writers of those days, 
a bit of a cynic with a clear-cut, vigorous style not com- 
monly associated with newspapers. He had a morbid 
passion for executions, then open to the Press, and de- 
scribed their horrors with a gruesome appreciation almost 
worthy of Poe. Ultimately he married a Lord Mayor's 
daughter and retired from the service. 

Guinee, another able Freeman's writer, did his descriptions 
of public functions at home. He filled in the details from 
his imagination, and his imaginary scenes were more vivid 
than reality. He was a most fecund and versatile writer 
who contributed to many periodicals, who made a big 
income for a Pressman, and while he himself lived a life of 
Spartan simplicity he banqueted a friend with embarrassing 
prodigality. 

It would be not flattery but irony to describe John B. 



THE REPORTERS' ROOM 31 

Gallagher, the editor of the Freeman's Journal, as a 
literary man. I remember on one occasion Lefroy ex- 
pressed his behef that " Old G./' or " Black Jack," as 
he was indifferently called at the office, had never read a 
book in his life. I suggested that he must have got through 
" Jack the Giant Killer " or " Robinson Crusoe " in the 
days of his youth, but Lefroy would make no exception. 

It was Gallagher who revised the reporters' copy on the 
way to the printing office and mercilessly mutilated the 
manuscript. Often, I remember, I wrote the first pages and 
the last large and wide and the intermediate pages small 
and close, in the vain hope of evading his inexorable blue 
pencil. Usually he compelled the unhappy reporter to 
mutilate his own offspring. 

" How much have you there 1 " 
" About a column and a half, sir." 
" Cut it down to a short half." 
There was no appeal from the decree. 
Gallagher had one curious delusion. He fancied that 
inverted commas were a protection against a hbel action, 
and stranger still an excuse for any eccentricities of style. 
One evening I read for him in his dingy throne-room 
the customary trite newspaper description of some per- 
formance at the theatre which I had witnessed. Some- 
one, I wrote, was " exquisitely " amusing. 

" Old G." cocked his head critically on one side. " I 
don't like that word exquisitely," he said. 

" All right, sir," I answered, " I'll strike it out." 
" No, no, it's a good word enough, but it's a little un- 
usual there. Tell you what, we'll quote it." 
" Quote it from what ? " I asked in amazement. 
" Oh, that does not matter, just simply quote it." 
Next morning the Freeman's Journal duly reported that 
the performance was " exquisitely " amusing. 

Yet Gallagher, with all his eccentricities, was shrewd and 
kindly, and admirably suited for his post. No man could 
more successfully gauge the current and trend of public 
opinion ; no man could more successfully engineer a boom, 
commercial or political. He had the keenest and most 



32 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

discriminating scent for interesting news, and an almost 
infallible instinct for detecting and rejecting a libel. 

For Gallagher the Freeman's Journal, the " Popular 
Instructor " as it was sometimes nicknamed, was a kind of 
god at whose altar he ministered, whose popularity it was 
his duty to preserve unimpaired. Himself a Whig of the 
old school, he never allowed his personal views to influence 
the conduct of the paper. 

When Parnell had established his position in the country 
and the Freeman at last reluctantly supported his forward 
movement, an old Whig friend condoled with Gallagher on 
the changed policy of the paper. 

" Yes, yes," Gallagher aquiesced dismally, " the country 
is going to the devil, but the Freeman is bound to go with 
the country." 

One other colleague claims honourable mention. 

When I first joined the Freeman's Journal that word 
" colleague " would have been incredible presumption applied 
to Theophilus McWeeney, the chief reporter. As well might 
the junior clerk of the Treasury claim the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer as a chum. Never in my life did I cringe and 
tremble before any man as I cringed and trembled before 
him during my novitiate. Yet he was one of the best-hearted 
of men, rough and tough exteriorly as the husk of a cocoanut, 
but full of the milk of human kindness. I tried to introduce 
him in manner as he lived into my story " White Magic," 
and am glad to remember he recognized and approved of 
the portrait. He may be fairly described as a " champion 
reporter." Of him it was said in Press circles that if he 
were thrown down a chimney when a meeting was half over 
he would contrive to get a full report of it before it rose. 
To literary style he had no claim, he gave facts in plain, 
bald narrative. Curiously enough for a Pressman of many 
years' standing, he loved rather to talk than to write ; but 
as a mere reporter he was one of the most efficient I ever 
knew, keen as Sherlock Holmes, or shall I sa.y Mr. Dupin, 
in ferreting out a secret piece of news, invaluable at a big 
public meeting in producing a cartload of copy. 

Yet it is not as a reporter but as a humorist that I remem- 



THE REPORTERS' ROOM 33 

ber him best. There was, indeed, never a trace of humour 
in his descriptive writings, however provocative the subject. 
No man who wrote so poorly ever talked so well. It would 
seem that in him the mere feel of the pen or pencil para- 
lysed the humour and imagination that revelled in the living 
word. His charm as a story-teller was supplemented by a 
marvellous gift as a mimic. By a twist of his face, a motion 
of his head he brought the man mimicked before his audience. 
Mr. Grossmith was the only other man I ever knew who 
possessed this singular gift of suggestion. 

McWeeney never smiled at his own stories, the wilder the 
farce the graver grew that hatchet face with its high fore- 
head and its tuft of pointed beard. 

We were thorough Bohemians in those good days that are 
gone, irresponsible as boys, "who think there. is no more 
behind than such a day to-morrow as to-day and to be 
boys eternal." 

Our daily life abounded in practical jokes and horse-play, 
but of the good-natured variety that give delight and hurt 
not. I have been writing assiduously when a couple of 
newspapers have been set on fire beside me, and have with 
difficulty rescued my precious copy from the flames. I have 
been beguiled by a judicious conspiracy of false testimony 
to search at midnight for some non-existent fire in a remote 
quarter of the town. But these things belong to the time 
when I had been made free of the craft, and that was many 
months after my first shy appearance in the reporters' 
room. 

It was a hard struggle at first, for " the Chief," adopting 
the heroic method, flung me to sink or swim into a law court 
or public meeting, where I floundered about wildly, all the 
time out of my depth. When I had practised shorthand I 
had been read to by kindly friends, who waited for me at 
the end of each sentence. Now inconsiderate speakers 
left me whole paragraphs behind, while my labouring pencil 
toiled after them in vain. My notes were in an inexplicable 
tangle, illegible to my bewildered eyes as Egyptian hiero- 
glyphics. Only very gradually I learned the art of following 
the sense of the speaker while my pencil followed his 



34 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

words. I learned too in those days that slow reading is 
faster than fast speaking, and that quiet conversation is 
faster than either. 

As I have said, I never grew a proficient shorthand 
writer. There were those amongst my colleagues who could 
easily keep pace with the most rapid speaker, as a dog 
keeps pace with a car, trotting along by the side without 
any apparent effort, but I had always to call on my memory 
to fill up the gaps left by my pencil. 

Two red-letter days stand out in my confused recollection 
of my protracted struggle to obtain an assured foothold on 
the Press — the day my writing first took on the dignity of 
the type, and the day that my fingers first touched coin of my 
own earning. 



CHAPTER IV 
WORK AND PLAY 

A life of variety — In the middle of things — Utilizing a Lord-Lieutenant — ■ 
Personating a Lord-Lieutenant — Boycotting a Lord-Lieutenant — 
Intimidating a Synod — An eloquent assembly — " The Colonel's 
corner " — An effective retort — A sharp contrast — The hanging of a 
murderer. 

FOR a young fellow sound in mind and limb, with a fair 
average intellect, there is no life in the world to rival 
a reporter's. The work is hard, — mind and muscle are often 
strained to the uttermost, but there is no other life that 
offers youth so much variety and excitement. The reporter 
lives in the midst of events, he sees and hears what other 
folks are anxious to read about, he never knows from day 
to day where he shall have to go or what he shall behold and 
record. In the routine of his day's work he meets the great 
men of his time, he is eye and ear-witness to the most 
exciting events, the side-shows of life are all open to him, 
theatres and social gatherings welcome him. With all 
deference to Hamlet, reporters, and not the actors, are in 
truth " the abstract and brief chronicle of the time." The 
most self-contained celebrities realize that " after death 
you had better have a bad epitaph than a bad report while 
you live." 

The reporter has seldom to complain of incivility, and he 
can always retaliate successfully. The principal actors in 
great events are only too anxious to facilitate the work of 
publicity, A colleague of mine, Mr. J. B. Hall, on the 
Freeman's Journal used to tell the following story, which 
I give as nearly as possible in his own words : — 

" When Lord Wodehouse was appointed Lord-Lieutenant, 
there was as usual a natural desire on the part of the news- 
papers to obtain some information about the ' new man,' 

35 



36 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and the procedure of installation at the Castle, and I was 
requested to pick up all I could about the Viceregal function. 

" I discovered that Lord Wodehouse and his suite were to 
depart that very evening from Kingstovv^n to Holyhead, 
and as I was then living at Sandycove, I went down to the 
mailboat, the Old Connaughf, and addressing my friend, 
the evergreen Captain Thomas, asked him had the Lord- 
Lieutenant, his secretary and party arrived ? 

" Pointing to a little group of gentlemen, he said, ' They 
are over yonder at the cabin, starboard side ; that's the 
secretary with the white flower in his coat.' 

" So I strolled towards the group, the members of which 
were moving to and fro, and politely accosting the gentle- 
man with the flower, said to him, ' You, I believe, are one 
of the Viceregal party ? ' 

" * Yes,' he replied, ' are you coming across ? ' 

" I said no, that I was a newspaper reporter, mentioned 
the name of my paper, and added that I was anxious to 
obtain some particulars of ' the swearing in of the new man 
at the Castle that afternoon.' 

" * My dear fellow,' he answered pleasantly, ' I am 
awfully glad I met you, I shall be only too delighted to 
help ; let us sit down.' 

"Then and there he dictated to me a really interesting 
account of the inauguration, with many graphic and un- 
conventional touches. I asked him a few supplemental 
questions as to what he thought were the general views of 
the ' new Lord-Lieutenant,' his first experiences of Ireland, 
and all the rest of it, and in reply he gave me a fund of 
interesting information. 

" When he had finished, I said, ' Well, I am ever so much 
obliged to you, thank you very much. You, I presume, 
are his Excellency's secretary ? ' 

" ' No, my boy,' said he, with a broad smile, ' I happen 
to be the " new man " himself, very much at your service ; 
whenever you want any information it is in my power to 
give, you will always be welcome.' 

" For a moment I was dumbfounded, but the contents of 
my notebook consoled me for my mistake." 



WORK AND PLAY 37 

The same colleague told how on another occasion the 
reporters got becalmed in a little yacht near Glengariff, 
and so missed the Viceroy's (Lord Haughton's) reply to 
an important address. They had secured a copy of the 
address before they sailed and, putting their heads together, 
they fabricated a column of eloquent but vague reply, 
which they wired to the Dublin papers the moment they 
touched land and which was accepted without question 
as the speech of his Excellency. 

Only twice in my recollection was a slight offered to Press- 
men, and on both occasions the slight was promptly and 
amply revenged. 

The Royal Agricultural Society once upon a time held 
its show in Londonderry. The " City of Apprentice Boys " 
was in a tremor of bustle and excitement. The then Lord- 
Lieutenant of Ireland, the Duke of Abercorn, went down to 
Derry for the show. It chanced that a special political 
significance attended his presence, and there were a host of 
reporters on the scene, including Press representatives from 
all the principal newspapers of Great Britain. 

The Mayor, who had fairly lost his head at this sudden 
inflation of his importance, contrived to insult the whole 
body of reporters at the first public function they attended. 
They determined in retaliation to boycott the Mayor, the 
Lord-Lieutenant and the show. 

The word Boycott was not known then, but the thing was. 
We reporters, in a body, politely declined all invitations to 
deputations, meetings or banquets, so the congratulatory 
address of the Corporation and the conciliatory response of 
his Excellency were lost to a curious public. 

Then the Viceregal influence was brought to bear on the 
newspaper proprietors, but they were loyal to their staffs 
and declined to interfere. The orators, refused the publicity 
of print, spoke their speeches to each other, and " to party 
gave up what was meant for mankind," while we reporters 
took our pleasure at our inn. 'Amongst those orators who 
had come to Derry with their speeches in their heads, or 
in their pockets, there was bitter discontent at the sup- 
pression, and the Mayor, who was responsible, was the 



38 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

target of their reproaches. His shght to the Press, moreover, 
cost him the knighthood which he had confidently antici- 
pated. 

Some time later I participated in a similar interlude of 
a less tragical character. A very large number of reporters, 
amongst them myself, were brought daily to the Synod 
Hall of Christ's Church in the early days of the excited 
debates on the revision of the Common Prayer Book, which 
succeeded Irish Church Disestablishment. 

Time and again we vainly requested the authorities to 
provide a screen between our gallery and the antechamber 
where our notes were transcribed. So great was the draught 
from one room to the other that occasionally the pages of 
our " copy " were lifted by the wind and scattered broad- 
cast through the hall. 

Day after day promises wefe given and broken. At last 
we took the matter into our hands, and quietly retired in a 
body from the gallery to the chamber behind it. For a few 
moments it appeared our disappearance was unnoticed. 
An eloquent military orator, one of the " party of the 
Colonel's," as it was called, was at the moment delivering 
an impassioned denunciation of a comma in the Athanasian 
Creed. Suddenly he stopped short in the middle of a 
sentence. He had discovered the void in the reporters' 
gallery. 

There was a confused buzz of surprise and consternation ; 
then blank silence. 

A few moments afterwards an influential deputation, a 
bishop, I fancy, I am almost certain a dean and a canon, 
waited on us and requested us to return to our place, promis- 
ing everything. But we had lost faith in ecclesiastical 
protestations. We felt ourselves masters of the situation, 
and we refused to budge an inch until the promises were 
redeemed. The Synodical deliberations were interrupted 
for an hour or more till a curtain had been adjusted at the 
back of the reporters' gallery, so the triumph of the Press 
militant over the Church dilatory was complete. 

While I am on the subject I say that the most exciting, 
excitable and eloquent assembly I ever attended was the 



WORK AND PLAY 39 

same Protestant Synod. The Protestant newspapers re- 
ported the proceedings in full, their reporters were hard- 
worked, but the editorial limit for the Freeman was a column 
to a column and a half, so I had ample leisure for the dis- 
criminating enjoyment of the debate. The topics to be 
discussed would not seem provocative of enthusiasm, but 
I heard hours of genuine eloquence expended over a debate 
on infant baptism, or the damnatory clauses of the Atha- 
nasian Creed. 

This thoroughgoing Creed was indeed the chief bone of 
contention at the Synod, fought over and pulled to pieces 
by the High Church and Low Church, by the bishops and 
laity, as fiercely as the body of Patroclus by the contending 
Trojans and Greeks. All sorts and conditions of men were 
included in the Synod. Dukes, earls, archbishops and 
bishops were confronted by a majority of Low Church laity, 
who were determined on broadening the Church and ex- 
cluding the shghtest savour of " Popery " from its ritual. 
There was a curiously large representation of the military 
element, indeed, one section, known as the " Colonel's 
Corner," waged unremitting war upon what they regarded 
as the popish tendencies of their episcopacy. It was here 
the Athanasian Creed found its fiercest opponents, and here 
the irreverent riddle was hatched : 

" Why is the Athanasian Creed like a tiger ? " 

" Because of its damnation claws." 

There were many distinguished soldiers in the " Colonel's 
Corner," and more than one of them was decorated with the 
Victoria Cross. Amongst them was one fine-looking man. 
Col. Elliot or FoUiot, I forget which, who had lost an arm 
and got the Cross as compensation, who had a special interest 
for me. He always spoke briefly and very gently, and as 
the only way in my power of expressing my admiration, 
I always reported him verbatim. I have often wondered 
since what he thought of finding himself fully reported in 
the National Catholic newspaper, where archbishops and 
dukes were dismissed with a line. 

By general consent, the most powerful debaters on the 
Synod were the late Trinity College Provost, Jellett, and the 



40 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

late Lord Justice FitzGibbon. The most eloquent orator 
and chief champion of the Athanasian Creed was Dr. 
Alexander, Bishop of Derry, afterwards Primate, a great 
poet as well as a great preacher, who retired at the age of 
ninety, or thereabouts. They had a curious method of voting 
by orders which I could never quite understand, and which 
led to continual deadlock. As the result of a compromise, 
it was ordained, if I understand rightly, that the Athanasian 
Creed should stand in the end of the Prayer Book, but no 
one was to be obliged to read it, or presumably to believe it 
unless he so chose. However strange it might seem that 
the majority should settle by vote the faith of the minority, 
there was no denying the vigour and eloquence of the 
debates. One illustration alone I find stranded in my 
memory, though it is trivial in comparison with hundreds 
that have escaped : — 

The Low Church party had fallen out among themselves, 
and were engaged in acrimonious controversy when Arch- 
bishop Plunkett interposed to compare himself and his 
episcopal colleagues to Csesar, who, " standing on a height 
above the field of conflict, viewed the barbarians destroying 
each other." 

Lord James Butler, leader of the Low Church party, 
instantly replied : 

" His Grace," he said, " perched on an imaginary eminence ' 
above the laity of his Church, rejoices in their mutual 
destruction, but this, at least, we can assure his Grace, that 
though in his estimation we are no better than barbarians, 
we have no intention of allowing ourselves to be ' butchered 
to make a Roman holiday.' " 

The reporter is the slave of " the Chief's " notebook as the 
genie was the slave of Aladdin's wonderful lamp, and the 
tasks set him are as various and as incongruous. When I 
arrived in the office at ten o'clock in the morning, in blank 
ignorance of the day's work before me, I was liable to be 
marked either for a flower-show in Merrion Square, a sen- 
sational law case in the Four Courts, a philanthropic 
meeting, or the investigation of a murder. Often I have been 
dispatched at half an hour's notice to a political demon- 



WORK AND PLAY 41 

stration in the remotest corner of the country, transcribed 
my notes on the return journey by the flickering Hght of a 
smoky oil-lamp in the guard's van of a cattle train, and 
popped the copy into the printer the moment I arrived in 
Dublin. With sharp and sudden change and contrast 
my duties shifted from grave to gay, from serious to serene. 

" I want you, Bodkin, to do me the presentation to the 
Lord Mayor to-day," said " the Chief," scribbling in his 
marking-book ; " afterwards you might pick up a par. of the 
man who drowned himself in the canal." 

The presentation was a splendid performance, attended 
by the notabilities of Dublin, followed by a luxurious 
luncheon. As luck happened, I had on that occasion a seat 
beside the late Professor Haughton, one of the most fas- 
cinating of men. Good cheer, pleasant talk and bright 
speeches sent the minutes flying past at a great rate. 
Suddenly I remembered my second appointment, looked at 
my watch, found that a fast car would just get me in time 
to the morgue. 

With the bright scene still before my eyes, the gay talk 
still in my ears, the exhilarating fumes of the champagne 
still in my brain, I entered the cold, foul-smelling court that 
is dedicated to the dead who have come to an untimely end. 

A hastily selected jury sat stolid in their box until they 
were invited to view the dead body, when they arose with 
strange alacrity, as if they found some morose delectation in 
that grim spectacle. The corpse of a man in his prime lay 
stretched on a rude bench in the dead-room. He was a big 
man and comely, in spite of the disfigurement of death. 
The day before he had gone out with a friend, and returning 
at night-time had dropped into the canal. His life ended 
as suddenly as a quenched candle. In the dim, damp court 
his wretched wife sat, rocking herself slowly to and fro in 
the stupor of intolerable grief. By her side their children 
crouched. The inquest began. 

The widow of a day was called and gave her evidence in 
a dull monotone, which a careless ear might have miscon- 
strued as unconcern rather than the numbness of a sudden 
and crushing grief. The police-sergeant told of the finding 



42 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

of the body to the accompaniment of the scratching pen of 
the coroner, and the jury briefly summarized the tragedy 
in their verdict : " Found drowned." 

I returned to the office with the details of those con- 
trasting scenes cheek by jowl in my notebook, and I trans- 
cribed them one after the other for the paper. The reporter 
has no need for sermons on the vanity of life. 

I had a still more dismal experience on the sole occasion I 
witnessed an execution. 

Even now, after the lapse of more than a quarter of a 
century, I cannot recall that grim scene without some- 
thing of the sickening sensation of horror which it first 
inspired. 

It was a very sordid and brutal murder, with no redeeming 
touch of romance to awaken the sympathy of the most 
gushing sentimentalist. A tramp murdered an old man for 
the sake of a few pounds and was caught red-handed. That 
was the whole story, as far as I knew it, when I was 
dispatched to Sligo to describe the execution. 

Let me confess, I was in no way unpleasantly affected by 
the mission ; it was all in the day's work. Sligo, I thought, 
was a pleasant town with pleasant people, and the Imperial 
Hotel with the river running in front of it was a pleasant 
place to put up at. On the way down I was absorbed in a 
novel, and murder and execution lay more than half for- 
gotten in the back of my head. 

By the time I got to my hotel, however, the remembrance 
of the gruesome duty of the morrow had slowly worked 
itself to the surface of my thoughts, but it was not till I 
was alone in my bedroom that the horror of the business 
fairly took hold of me. 

Suddenly I realized that for the wretched murderer 
this was the last night on earth, and he knew it. Vivid and 
more vivid the picture grew of the poor wretch awake 
through the long night, looking death straight in the eyes. 
Of him it might be most truly said that in the midst of life 
he was in death, but it was man, not God, that doomed 
him. Sickness eases the passage to the grave ; the vigorous 
vitality of a man in rude health protests against the 



WORK AND PLAY 43 

outrage of extinction. Gradually keen sympathy grew to 
delirium. I seemed to be present in the condemned cell, 
to share the ineffectual agony of the wretch whose last few 
hours on earth were slipping away so fast. 

Then, as now, my reason approved of capital punishment 
for capital crime as the one deterrent by which would-be 
murderers are in the least likely to be restrained. But on 
that night my imagination completely captivated my 
reason, the terror of the condemned murderer grew so real 
to me that I would have given my right hand to save that 
sordid scoundrel from the doom he so richly deserved. 

When at last I slept I was tormented by horrible dreams. 
Twice I awoke in a cold sweat with the rope round my neck 
and my foot on the drop. With the first glimpse of the grey 
dawn, remembrance came back to me clear and cruel, 
the thought that for the first time in my life I was about to 
see a man die. 

The execution was fixed for an early hour. The day 
dawned bright and fair, a lovely morning in early summer, 
and the cool, fresh air of the early morning was stimulating 
as wine. The scaffold on which I stood with some of my 
colleagues looked out on a wide, beautiful land, of hill and 
lake, radiant in the slant rays of the newly risen sun. 

The beauty of the day enhanced the horror of the deed. 
Insistent as the beating of my pulse, the thought kept 
hammering at my heart that in a little time a man like 
myself, loving life as I loved it, must pass out of the world 
before my eyes. I was shocked at the callousness of my 
colleagues, who chatted and laughed together as if no 
tragedy were impending. 

A bell began to toll : then from afar off, very faint at 
first, but growing more distinct as it approached, was heard 
the monotonous murmur of prayer. In slow procession 
there came upon the platform the condemned man and the 
chaplain walking side by side, the sheriff and the governor 
of the jail followed close behind, and at a greater distance 
a shy and shamefaced hangman brought up the rear. My 
eyes went at once with horrible fascination to the face of 
the man about to die. He was pale all over, ghastly pale. 



44 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

cheeks, lips and forehead a uniform colour, not white, but 
ashen-grey and shiny with moisture when the light touched 
it. From the grey lips issued a hollow murmur of prayer. 
He seemed to move and speak mechanically as if stupefied 
by fear. Slowly they went past, and the doomed man, 
still moving like one in a dream, was led to the drop, three 
paces from where I stood. Then for the first time he seemed 
to wake to consciousness and, like an animal shying at 
danger, refused to step upon the drop. The hangman 
coaxed and pushed him on as one would coax a refractory 
child. For a moment the trembling figure stood black 
outlined against the glow of the morning, while the hangman 
busied himself with the nice adjustment of the rope, and 
drew over the stooped head the cap that shut out for ever the 
light of heaven and the beauty of earth. 

At that moment my heart utterly failed me. With an 
overwhelming sensation that I myself was about to die, I 
staggered down the rickety ladder and leant against one 
of the posts of the scaffold for support. There was a sudden 
jerk, a shiver ran through the wood and for a single instant, 
clear against the light, I saw a ghastly figure that struggled 
in impotent agony, and then swung gently to and fro a 
dead thing at the end of the straight, taut rope. 

I remember no more. When I recovered consciousness I 
was lying on the floor of the governor's room, to which I 
had been carried, and, as sight and hearing slowly returned, 
I saw a number of men around me and heard their half- 
contemptuous comment on my " softness." 

It was a paralysing experience, but I was above all things 
a reporter, and a reporter is not allowed to feel. Within two 
hoiurs " a full, true and particular account " of the execution 
was on the wire to my paper. 



CHAPTER V 
LONGBOW AND BULL 

Two notable colleagues — Splendide mendax — A few illustrations — 
Bamboozling Parnell — "A boil that burst " — A breeder of prize bulls — 
" So far forgot himself " — " One of three others " — An insult and an 
apology. 

E^S have an interest all their own. Of course, I don't 
mean wicked lies, which are sins, but the gasconade 
of narrative, the boasting of men whose imagination runs 
away with them, and who are as a rule much pleasanter 
fellows to listen to than the dull prosers who stick closely to 
fact and never spare you the infliction of a name or date. 
I read an article some time ago on lies and the way to cure 
them. The way to cure them was by telling bigger lies to 
the liar until he retired abashed. In this article, which was 
published during the bicycle boom, bicycle lies were princi- 
pally treated of. Now golf lies are all the fashion, and have 
given rise to the epigram that golfers on the links are 
" like as they lie," and off the links " lie as they like." 

There is a certain sympathy with the liar of the type I 
have described. Everyone knows the story of the man in 
the train who passed his card to the magnificent romancer, 
who had enthralled and astounded the company. On the 
card was the inscription : 

" Heartiest congratulations ; I am a bit of a liar myself." 

Fishermen also are renowned for their splendid mendacity. 

" How comes it," asked an inexperienced novice, " that 
the fish in the river a mile off are so much better than the 
fish in this river ? " 

His guide enlightened him : " Faix, your honour, it is not 
that there are bigger fish in the river, but there are bigger 
liars on the banks." 

But all the liars to whom I have heretofore alluded were 

45 



46 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

specialists, restricted each to a single department of the 
science. It was my good fortune in my Press experience to 
know a brilliant, universal liar whose imagination knew no 
bounds. He was ready to discourse on all subjects with the 
same fluent mendacity. An hour's talk with him was a 
liberal education. Let me say at once he was in every way 
a delightful companion. Kind-hearted, genial and in all 
relations between man and man the soul of honour. But 
in the matter of narrative, above all personal narrative, 
Baron Munchausen was prosaic by comparison. Wild 
horses won't drag from me the faintest indication of his 
name or identity beyond the statement that many years ago 
he was a well-known and popular figure in Dublin. 

As I said, he was a general practitioner in romance, but 
it was in the romance of war he specially excelled. I 
remember on one occasion happening to be with him at 
Rigby's famous gun-shop. He picked up a revolver and 
examined it with the eye of a connoisseur. 

" This is foreign make ? " he said. 

" No," said Mr. Rigby, " it is one of our own." 

" Yes, yes," said our friend, " I should have known that 
at once. In fact, I bought a pair of them during the Turko- 
Russian war. One of them I kept for myself, the other I 
gave to my friend, Osman Pasha. I remember he was struck 
down on the field and dropped the revolver, I bestrode 
his body, picked up his weapon and killed the twelve 
Russians who attacked him with twelve shots from the two 
revolvers ; a first-class weapon. I congratulate you, Mr. 
Rigby. Osman was very much obliged, and gave me a 
present of a cigar-case as a memento of the little incident," 

" Do you happen to have it about you ? " I asked. 

" Certainly," he answered, and drew out a little shilHng 
plaited straw cigar-case, with a piece of soiled paper pasted 
on it. Inscribed on the paper in his own handwriting were 

the words, " From Osman Pasha to as a memento of 

gratitude for saving his life." 

" But," I ventured to object, " that is in Enghsh, and I 
was under the impression that Osman Pasha was a Turk." 

" Some people's ignorance is astounding," he said. " Of 



LONGBOW AND BULL 47 

course Osman Pasha was a Turk, but I thought every one 
knew he was educated at Stonyhurst." 

After that I never ventured to cross-examine my friend. 

On another occasion I happened to notice suspended 
crossways in his room an old " property " sword from some 
theatre, with a huge notch on the blade. 

" Do you see that notch ? " he asked ; a blind man might 
have seen it. " There is a curious little incident connected 
with that. As I was riding at the head of my regiment of 
light cavalry, we were attacked by a superior force of 
Russian Cossacks. Their leader, a man of gigantic size, 
at least seven feet high, struck at me with that sword. I 
warded off the blow with my revolver barrel, and notched 
the blade, as you see ; then I shot him through the head. A 
year afterwards I was passing over the battlefield and 
found the skeleton still grasping the sword. I picked it up 
as a memento of that little incident." 

A mutual friend, one of the kindliest and gentlest of men, 
accidentally stumbled against our hero and made instant 
apology. 

" You were right to apologize. A regrettable accident 
once occurred by the refusal of a man under similar cir- 
cumstances to apologize. I was walking on the Rialto at 
Venice when a man stumbled against me. With the utmost 
courtesy I requested him to be more careful. On the second 
turning he again stumbled against me. I cautioned him 
to be more careful, and warned that the consequence might 
be unpleasant. He laughed at my warning and stumbled 
against me, deliberately, a third time. I drew the blade 
from my sword-cane and cut off his left leg." 

" My dear sir," said the astounded gentleman, to whom 
the narrative was addressed, " I think that was most 
uncalled for." 

Perhaps the most astounding illustration of his prolific 
imagination is one that has already appeared in print, 
and created a startling sensation at the time. It was in the 
early days of the Land League in Ireland. Chancing to 
meet Mr. Parnell at a late hour of the night in Dublin, our 
friend drew him mysteriously apart, told him he had been 



48 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

dining that night in the Castle and had heard the Attorney- 
General, who was slightly " overtaken with drink," declare 
that the warrant was out for Mr. Parnell's arrest. 

The story was told with such precision that Mr, Parnell 
accepted it as a fact. " I should be glad," he said, " to 
get out to Avondale to settle some papers before my arrest." 

" I will be able," replied the other, " to procure a coach 
and four within an hour's time." 

" To whom am I indebted ? " asked Mr. Parnell. 

" My name is Finnegan," was the reply. His name was 
no more Finnegan than Nebuchadnezzar. 

" Before starting," Mr. Parnell suggested, " I must call 
at the Freeman's Journal office to see the editor for a 
moment." It chanced our hero at the time was, like my- 
self, a member of the literary staff of the Freeman's Journal, 
but he made no objection to the suggestion, and accom- 
panied Parnell to the sanctum of the editor, to whom he 
was introduced as " Mr. Finnegan." 

The editor was naturally amazed at the sudden change 
of name on the part of his subordinate, " Mr. Finnegan," 
quite unabashed, confessed that his name was not Finnegan, 
but maintained the rest of his story was true. 

" When I heard the news," he added, " I went out to 
Dollymount, where I had a hundred men thoroughly drilled 
and armed with Winchester rifles, I gave them the hard 
word to come in at once in case a rescue should be required. 
Passing Ballybrough Bridge, I came on two constables 
who called on me to stop, I refused. One of them fired, 
and the bullet grazed my side. I turned in my saddle and 
shot the fellow dead with my revolver." 

In confirmation of his story he undressed himself and 
exhibited a red mark on his left side which, to the uninitiated, 
might seem the graze of a bullet. But the old pensioner, 
who was the night porter of the establishment, was called 
in as an expert to inspect the wound, and his verdict dis- 
credited the entire story. 

" Bullet wound ? " said he. " Bullet wound, indeed ! 
it is a boil that burst." 

Mr. Parnell did not return to his residence in a coach 



LONGBOW AND BULL 49 

and four that night, and next day the story was pubhshed 
in the evening edition of the paper, in fuller detail than 
I have given it here, but with names attached, and some 
satirical comment on the imaginative powers of " the new 
Munchausen." 

In the afternoon I encountered my friend in a very 
bellicose humour. " I have been puzzling myself all day," 
he told me, " since I read the libel in the newspaper, as to 
what course I should adopt, and I have not yet made up 
my mind whether I should laugh at the whole proceeding 
as an amusing hoax, or call out Dwyer Grey (the proprietor 
of the paper) for doubting my word." 

It is right to add that his career ended in real adventures 
more exciting and astounding than the wildest dreams of 
his vivid imagination, adventures in which he displayed 
the most superb coolness and courage, and died the death 
of a hero. 

As a contrast to him I have in mind a kindly, good- 
natured, harum-scarum colleague, the best-hearted of fellows 
and the best-natured, who was curiously unfitted for the 
profession he selected. His characteristic blunders are still 
the subject of good-natured mirth amongst the reporters of 
Dublin. He could hardly manage a paragraph without a 
bull in the middle of it. 

Samples only, and those, I fear, are not the best, dwell in 
my memory. An archbishop was sick, and our friend was 
dispatched from the office to inquire as to his condition. 
Next day the paragraph appeared : 

" Though still attended by Dr. A. and Dr. B., the Arch- 
bishop continues to improve." 

The doctors were two of the most prominent in Dublin. 

On another occasion he declared " a wreck was thrown 
up on the coast by a receding wave." 

A member of the Royal Irish Constabulary murdered his 
sergeant. The tragedy was thus described by our friend : 

" Constable X. was a steady and well-conducted young 
man, who bore a high character in the force, but on Saturday 
night he so far forgot himself as to deliberately shoot his 
superior officer." 



50 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Perhaps the gem of the collection was his description of 
a boating accident. " The deceased," he wrote, " was one 
of three others who left the harbour in an open boat." 

I remember weU what a badgering he got in the reporters' 
room over this unhappy paragraph, 

" How many men were there in the boat ? " he was asked, 
and he promptly answered, " Three." 

"That could not be," his tormentor explained; "there 
was the deceased and three others." 

" Oh, there were four," answered the author of the 
paragraph. 

"That could not be, either," was the retort; "for the 
deceased was one of the three others." 

The interview terminated in an invitation to fight. 

One other illustration and I have done. 

Our friend, " C.C." we will caU him, was dining with two 
other Pressmen when the elder of the two, irritated by some 
caustic chaff of his colleague, retorted sharply : 

" I declare you are as big a fool as C.C." 

" C.C." pondered this dark saying in his mind during 
dinner. Afterwards he found an opportunity to demand an 
explanation. 

" When you said that just now," he asked, " did you 
mean to insult me, or the other chap ? " 

" The other chap, of course." 

" That's all right," was the satisfied reply. 



CHAPTER VI 
DICK ADAMS 

" A fellow of infinite jest " — Comedy in court — His first brief — Sala- 
mander Murphy — Irish match-making — A batch of good stories — Red 
Dan Massy — The King's Double. 

TO one other of the colleagues of those old days a 
tribute is due. All who knew Dick Adams will accord 
to him the supreme gift of humour, though it is not easy to 
find illustrations for an after generation ; for his humour 
consisted not so much in the quick retort and the droll 
story as in the queer twist that he gave to the most prosaic 
incidents. He spared neither his friends nor himself when a 
laugh was to be raised. 

In the newspaper office he played all sorts of pranks, 
which, funny as they were in the execution, would be tedious 
to recall. When he was called to the Bar there was always a 
crowd round him as he stood with his back to the fire in the 
Law Library, and men neglected their business to listen to 
Dick Adams' inimitable comment on men and things. In 
later days he enjoyed a like popularity in the smoke-room 
of the National and Liberal Club in London. 

Eventually he was made County Court Judge of Limerick, 
and while he was a most admirable judge in law and fact and 
most popular with litigant and practitioner, his irre- 
sponsible humour converted his court into a veritable 
theatre of varieties, frequented by all the visitors and 
pleasure -seekers of the town. He had a supreme contempt 
for appearances and frequently decided a right-of-way case 
in the locus in quo, sitting on the fence in dispute, smoking 
the pipe of peace in the centre of the eager disputants. 

Only once had I the pleasure of seeing him in court, and 
as that was a case he decided against me the incident is 

51 



52 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

naturally devoid of humorous associations, but the following 
picture by an eyewitness gives some notion of the conduct of 
his court, 

I only saw and heard him once, but that day is marked 
in my memory with a very white stone. Judge Adams 
loved to be eccentric. Apparently in the prime of life, of a 
cheerful and ruddy countenance and with eyes that sparkled 
with good-natured humour, Judge Adams, who was all 
things to all Limerick, was very much at home. Truly, he 
seemed just a jolly visitor come to make everybody happy, 
and perfectly succeeding. 

Surely such an atmosphere of gaiety never pervaded a 
court before ! Did not the very dock put forth blossoms 
and buds between the spikes ! The good " new times " 
had come at last ! 

It was understood, of course, that certain little matters 
were to be adjusted, some re-adjusted. Each process would 
be slightly unpleasant for somebody ; this was to be 
regretted. 

But as it would be a perfectly ravishing experience for 
everybody else, was there not much reason for rejoicing ? 

A fishing case was called, poaching for salmon was the 
offence. Naturally the gentle alibi was the first line of 
defence. 

But owing to an inexcusable want of backbone on the 
part of a witness the alibi collapsed. Then the harassed 
gentleman admitted fishing, but for trout only. 

" What bait ? " asked Judge Adams. 

It was a kind only known to the highly initiated, but his 
Honour knew it well. He remembered on one particular 
Sunday having captured a ten-pounder with it on the very 
spot mentioned. 

Straightway judge and accused exchanged fishing stories. 
The court and the case were forgotten. By pleasant paths 
they wandered on until at last the judge enthusiastically 
said : 

" Ah, Mr. C, you too are a true fishennan, and that very 
bait is the best bait I've known for -for " 

" Salm — trout ! yer honour ! " cried the unhappy culprit. 



DICK ADAMS 53 

Oh, the twinkle of those wonderful eyes and the shout 
that shook the court as the curtain descended. 

The next case was more interesting, A pretty and prettily 
dressed young lady was accused of successful stone-throwing. 

A deceased relative had presented a local church with a 
stained-glass memorial window. The young lady dis- 
approved, and choosing midnight's solemn hour and the 
largest heap of grey flints, providentially placed beside the 
irritating work of art, wrecked the window. 

" You say. Sergeant B., she threw those stones ? " asked 
Judge Adams. 

" Yes, your Honour." 

" And hit the window ? " asked the judge incredulously, 

" Every time, your Honour," said the sergeant firmly. 

" And was not afraid of midnight ghosts ? " further 
inquired the judge. 

" Your Honour," replied the sergeant in a hopeless tone, 
" she wasn't even afraid of me." 

The judge took a long look at the pathetic figure in the 
dock. 

" To keep the peace for life," was the tremendous sentence 
given in a tremendous voice. " And if she doesn't you're to 

wire me at once. Sergeant B,, and then I shall " and 

Judge Adams completed the sentence with a Judge Jeffreys 
look. 

The young lady now fears to brush the dust off a stone or 
look crooked at a stained-glass window. 

Here is an illustration of his humour, more pungent and 
less playful. 

There is, as all lawyers know, a rule of law that while a 
judge is allowed to have before him the record of the prisoner 
whom he is trying, all knowledge of previous convictions is 
jealously withheld from the jury. 

A prisoner was tried for larceny before Judge Adams in 
Limerick. The case was a strong one and the judge charged 
for a conviction, but the jury gave the prisoner, who was 
a respectable-looking man, the benefit of the doubt and 
acquitted him. 

Thereupon Dick Adams read out for the astonished jury 



54 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

a long litany of previous convictions against the prisoner 
for swindling and robbery of every form and degree. 

" Prisoner at the bar," he concluded, " it would be a 
straining of language to describe your past career as credit- 
able, but this most intelligent jury has been pleased to 
acquit you of the last crime laid to your charge, and you 
now leave this court without any additional stain on your 
character." 

Inimitable is Dick Adams' own account of his handling of 
his first brief in court : 

" At the Cork Assizes thirty years ago I was sitting in the 
Bar room, engaged in discussing with a friend, who like 
myself had been called to the Bar during the year, that 
eternal topic of the young barrister — the hopelessness of 
the professional outlook. Suddenly the door opened, I was 
summoned by the janitor, and a friendly solicitor placed in 
my rejoicing hands that most delightful gift ' a first Brief.' 
It was marked two guineas, accompanied by a cheque for 
that sum, and thereby retained me to defend an alleged 
malefactor who was to be tried in the Crown Court that day 
on a charge of stealing a donkey. 

" I easily mastered the brief, which contained the de- 
positions at the petty sessions and a general denial of all 
guilt, and after lunch my man was put in the dock. 

" The prisoner looked rather nervous, but the state of his 
mind was nothing to his advocate's. 

" It was afterwards my fate to defend a great many 
prisoners and hold some civil briefs, but the original feeling 
of * funk ' never disappeared. Some actors attain dis- 
tinction without ever losing the feeling of stage fright, and 
the same is true of many advocates, who as their case is 
approached earnestly pray that some trifling incident, such 
as, say, the judge dropping in a fit, would delay the case 
until next day. 

" The judge before whom my prisoner was arraigned 
was the late Mr. Justice Lawson, a very pleasant judge if 
you had a good case, and very unpleasant if you had a bad 
one. Above all, he was a very trying man to defend a 
prisoner before, and had no consideration for the feelings 



DICK ADAMS 55 

of an unfortunate barrister in a hopeless cause, bound of 
necessity to try and make the worst appear the better 
reason. 

" I stumbled through the earlier stages without serious 
difficulties, but with the defence my troubles began. I 
called a witness to character, who commenced his evidence : 

" ' I know the prisoner; he is a horse-dealer.' 

" The judge wrote down the evidence and repeated aloud : 

" ' 1 know the prisoner ; he is a horse-stealer.' 

" ' A horse-dealer, my lord,' I nervously interposed. 

" ' Oh, I beg your pardon,' said the judge, ' I thought 
the witness said horse-stealer.' 

" My brethren of the Junior Bar roared at the judicial joke, 
a duty expected from all practitioners by all judges high or 
low, and as it is commonly, but most untruthfully said, 
nowhere more strictly exacted than in the County Court of 
Limerick. 

" My witness disposed of, I began to address the court. 
Nervousness had by this time completely overmastered me 
and I no longer quite knew what I was saying. My rhe- 
torical style was, I believe, originally lofty and restrained, 
but I had long contributed to a great daily paper which still 
flourishes, and there I had learned to be a little flamboyant. 

" In an evil moment I began : ' Gentlemen of the jury, 
my client's lips are closed, he stands dumb in the dock 
before you, but if ever the genius of science descends on the 
chaos of English law ' 

" * Don't mind the genius of science,' said the pitiless 
judge, ' but go on with your case.' 

" The Junior Bar again roared, and I, scarcely knowing 
whether I was on my head or my heels, delivered my per- 
oration. ' At any rate, my lord and gentlemen of the jury, 
no one saw my client steal the donkey.' 

" When the jury retired I got back to the fire in the Bar 
room, where I sat down, firmly believing that my legal 
career had opened, culminated and closed in a single day. 

" In my despair there came to me a very brilliant and 
very good-natured leader of the circuit. 

" ' Don't be a fool, Dick,' he said to me ; ' don't mind old 



56 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Lawson, he means no harm, it's only his downright way 
with every man who defends a prisoner. Many a time I've 
suffered from him.' 

" I took the well-meant advice — forgotten, I suppose, by 
its utterer in half an hour but remembered by me at the 
end of thirty years. I went back into court just as the jury 
were coming out of their room. The issue paper was handed 
down to the Clerk of the Crown. He read it out, I gasped 
with amazement. ' Wliat ! ' said the judge indignantly. 
' Yes, my lord,' said the Clerk of the Crown, 'it's " Not 
Guilty." ' 

" As I left the court in utter astonishment an acquaint- 
ance on the jury whispered to me : 

" ' Mr. Adams, we thought the judge was too much down 
on you altogether, so we gave your client the benefit of the 
doubt." 

Dick Adams used also to tell with great gusto of the utter 
overthrow of a case, in which he was engaged in Cork, by a 
single imprudent answer of a too-friendly witness. 

The plaintiff for whom he appeared as counsel was a 
gentleman known to his familiar friends as " Salamander 
Murphy." The nickname had a special significance, for 
Mr. Murphy had been engaged in very many successful 
actions against insurance companies, and the delicate 
suggestion was that he " lived on fire." 

In this particular case the company resisted his claim 
for compensation for the burning of his shop, but they 
had little to go on except general repudiation of the 
plaintiff. 

Dick Adams, as counsel for the plaintiff, examined a 
witness who rented unfurnished apartments over another 
shop of plaintiff's. In reply to question of the counsel he 
stated that he brought his own " valuable furniture " into 
the rooms and that he was not insured. 

" You had perfect confidence in Mr. Murphy ? " asked 
Dick. 

" Perfect." 

" And you had no fear of a fire ? " 

" None in the world. Salamander is not the man to go 



DICK ADAMS 57 

back on a friend. I knew he would give me the hard word 
if anything was going to happen." 

Dick lost his case. 

I trust that no apology is needed for a budget of Dick 
Adams' good stories, for the most part from his own lips. 

" The Irish Cupid," he maintained, " has a double 
existence. In the poets he is a rosy god all smiles and 
flowers." 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, — she as soft as the dawn. 

The real Irish Cupid is a more business-like deity, and the 
match of Mary Hayes, whose father has a bawn of fifteen 
cows, is proceeded by as much negotiation as if she were an 
American heiress with a few million dollars. The truth is, 
of course, that the young farmer cannot marry without a 
fortune, and that the couple of hundred pounds the lady 
brings is given to his father, who, securing himself a pension, 
or " liberty," gives up the farm to the young couple, 
sends a boy to America with some of the money, apprentices 
another to a trade with more and marries a daughter with 
the balance. 

" The Irishman," Dick Adams declared, " has, above all 
things, a saving sense of humour; he loves a good story, 
though it is against himself." Hence the growth of the 
" Shrove Tuesday Tales," humorous exaggerations of the 
undoubted: truth that Irish rural matches are often matters 
of arrangement. 

Here are a few which have never before appeared in 
print I — 

On a Shrove Tuesday morning a young girl is roused from 
her sleep by her mother. 

" Get up, Mary," said the mother. 

" For what, mother ? " asked Mary, who was not anxious 
to rise. 

" To get married," said the mother. 

" Yerra, to whom, mother ? " said Mary, springing out 
of bed. 

" Yerra ; what's that to you ? " was the indignant 
answer. 



58 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Here is another tale : — 

On the Shrove Tuesday eve a young girl bursts in on 
some of her companions, " Girls, I'm going to be married." 

" To whom, Mary ? " queried all her friends together. 

" To one of the Dalys at the Cross." 

" To which of them ? " was again the unanimous query. 

" Well," said the embarrassed Mary, " it was very dark 
by the fire and I did not notice which of them." 

Mike Harrington wooed and won the heart of Ellen 
Downing. Unhappily, the faithless man cast an eye on 
Jane Donavan, who was quite as good-looking as Ellen and 
had a genuine two hundred pounds, while Ellen Downing 
had only a doubtful one hundred and fifty. So the depraved 
wretch jilted the poor girl, proposed to and was accepted by 
Jane Donavan. 

On the Shrove Tuesday morning Jane drove with her 
intended on an outside car to the church to be married, but 
as she passed Ellen's cottage she saw the poor girl at the 
door indulging in the feminine luxury of a good cry. She 
stood at the altar in due course and the priest asked her 
would she take " this man to be her husband." 

" No, Father," she said ; "no, it will never be said of me 
that I canted Nell Downing out of a husband." 

And " with that," as the Irish story-tellers say, she walked 
out of the church. Mike looked exceedingly foolish, and 
was soundly rated by the good priest, who had previously 
known nothing of his conduct. Then Ellen Downing was 
sent for, a reconciliation was effected and she and Mike were 
married there and then and lived happily ever afterwards. 
The kind-hearted Jane next Shrove Tuesday made the best 
match in the parish. 

In some parts of the county of Limerick a strange custom 
prevails. A bashful young man when he goes a-wooing 
brings with him a friend who has more power of speech and 
is known as " the Spaker." " The Bachelor " and " the 
Spaker " went to dine at the house of an eligible young 
girl. 

She was bright and clever and had a box of novels from 
a town cousin, so she began to test the literary tastes of her 



DICK ADAMS 59 

suitors. " Do you prefer Jane Barlow or Rosa Mulholland ? " 
she asked. " Have you read ' Knockmagough ' or the 
poems of Mr. Yates ? " 

The bachelor was not a man of letters. The whiskey punch 
had began to circulate. He whispered to " the Spaker," 
" Take plenty of that, for I don't think we will be coming 
here any more." 

There is a vast estate in the west of Limerick on which 
" Absenteeism " is presented in its best form. The land- 
lord, the head of one of the greatest European families, 
has little or no pecuniary interest in the estate, but it has 
been managed by a dynasty of land agents — grandfather, 
father and son — ^who have ruled it well for the owners and 
happily for the tenants. 

One of the dynasty was approached by a tenant who was 
four years in arrears. 

" Forgive me two years, sir," said the tenant ; " I want 
to get married and no girl will have me with these arrears." 

The agent, who was a wise man and knew that arrears 
are a millstone to a tenant and very little value to the 
landlord, forgave them accordingly. 

A year or two passed away and the tenant appeared again 
at the office asking to be relieved of the balance of the 
arrears, and pleaded that they were still standing in the 
way of his matrimonial designs. 

" Why," said the agent, " you told me if I took off two 
years you could get married." 

" Well, sir, I tried," was the answer, " but the only girl I 
could get to have me was the smith's daughter, who has only 
one eye, and if I have full receipt I could get a girl with two 
eyes, and as good as any in the parish." 

The plea was irresistible. The two years were remitted, 
and the young man married a girl with two eyes of that 
" unholy blue " which is nowhere so charming as among 
the green hills and pleasant valleys of we&t Limerick. 

The Irish farmer has, as a rule, little sympathy with a 
son's captiousness in the matter of matrimony. He holds 
the view which crabbed age has always pressed upon 
romantic youth. 



6o RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Away with your witchcraft of beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you fclasp in your arms ; 

Oh, give me the lass that has acres of charms. 
Oh, give me the lass with the well-stockit farms. 

" The girl is a decent father's and mother's daughter," 
urged such a sire on a reluctant son, " and she has a nice 
bit of land of her own." 

" But, father," objected the lad, " she has a lame leg." 

"Is it an opera dancer you want, sir ? " asked the old 
gentleman fiercely. 

I have often heard Dick Adams protest vigorously 
against the theory that because a man tells a more or less 
humorous story he tells it to jeer at his country. " I tell 
these tales," he used to say, " as ' founded on fact,' not as 
facts." Love in Ireland, as elsewhere, often presides when 
what is called the " Torch of Hymen " is lighted. But love 
smiles, too, on unions that owe their origin to prudence. 
Happy and pure are homes of Ireland, happier and purer 
than any others on earth. 

In all seriousness, it is a matter of greatest advantage 
that young people in Ireland do not, as in other days, rush 
into early and imprudent marriages. Marriages in Ireland 
are now later than in most other countries. 

" So Lizzie Ahern is going to be married," I once said to a 
man in east Cork. 

"It is time for her," he replied, " sure the ' bridhogue ' 
was left at her door every Shrove for the last nine years." 

The " bridhogue " is a rag doll left at the door of girls who 
won't clear out of the way of other maidens by getting 
married. It is an attention bitterly resented by the males 
of the family, and often causes broken heads. 

" I was driving once," Dick said, " in the county Tip- 
perary when we passed a nice country place. 

" ' Who lives there ? ' I asked the driver. 

" * A gentleman they call Red Dan Massy,' was the reply, 

" ' And why,' I asked, ' do they call him Red Dan ? ' 

" ' Begorra, I don't know, sir,' said the driver, ' for his 
hair is black and his name is William.' " 

The owner of the house was the gallant General Massy, 



DICK ADAMS 6i 

whose bravery at the attempt to storm a famous Crimean 
fort won for him the soubriquet of " Redan Massy." 

Great men have their weaknesses. Not a httle proud 
was poor Dick Adams of a very striking resemblance to his 
late Majesty King Edward VII. He wore his beard trimmed 
in the same fashion and occasionally frequented the same 
health resorts. He had many fantastic stories to tell of his 
adventures and misadventures from being mistaken for his 
Majesty. 

" ' See here, Richard,' said the King to me on one occasion, 
* this won't do, you know.' 

" ' What won't do, your Majesty ? ' asked I. 

" ' Well, it comes to this : you or I must leave Homburg, 
and I vote we toss up which it is to be. I don't in the least 
mind them mistaking you for me ; I don't mind the bands 
playing " God save the King " whenever you appear. But 
when I cannot show my face out of doors without some 
seedy-looking chap clapping me on the shoulder and singing 
out with a strong Cork accent, " Hallo, Dick, how's your- 
self ? Come and have a drink," it becomes a bit tiresome.' 

"So we tossed up," Dick concluded; "he won, and I left." 



CHAPTER VII 
FATHER JAMES HEALY 

The Irish Sydney Smith — A diner-out of the first water — Tuft-hunted, 
not tuft-hunter— Outdoor reUef — His curate kept a carriage — His 
retort to Judge Keogh — Hit all round — " You don't cut your friends " — 
Under the mistletoe or the rose — A kindly act — An eloquent tribute. 

BEFORE I pass from my experiences as a reporter I 
may be allowed to recall two very remarkable men 
with whom my acquaintance gradually ripened into friend- 
ship. Both were Catholic priests, Father James Healy and 
Father Tom Burke, o.P., one the greatest wit, the other 
at the same time the most eloquent preacher and the 
richest humorist of their generation. 
Of Father Healy it may be truly said 

A merrier man 
Within the limits of becoming mirth 
None ever spent an hour's talk withal. 

For many years he held a unique position in Dublin. He 
was the Sydney Smith of the Irish metropolis, " a diner-out 
of the first water." His social charm made him a welcome 
guest at the table of such men as Gladstone, Salisbury and 
Disraeh. It was the ambition of every distinguished man 
who lived in Dublin, or who visited Dublin, to dine in 
Father Healy's company. In one of Lord Randolph 
Churchill's letters, preserved in the admirable biography by 
his son, he writes after a session of unusual stress, that 
nothing could restore him but " a night spent in Father 
Healy's company." The festivities of Dublin circled round 
him. He was overwhelmed with the invitations of the great, 
while on the other hand an invitation to his own humble 
" shanty " in Little Bray was the most prized of all social 
distinctions. A ceremonious Viceregal banquet would be 

62 




Photo by Chancellor and Son, Dublin. 



Rev. Father James Healy 

Parish priest of Little Bray. 



p. 62 



FATHER JAMES HEALY 63 

immediately postponed if it were found that " the Padre " 
was giving one of his Uttle dinners the same day and had 
honoured the Viceroy with an invitation. 

Those eagerly sought-for dinners consisted of a single 
joint, sometimes preceded by fish or soup. He had one 
servant, who when she had cooked the dinner attended at 
table. The host carved and the guests passed the plates 
round. On one occasion a noble visitor who had been 
brought by the Viceroy to dinner, much to the amusement 
of the other guests, looked round for someone to take his 
coat. 

" Excuse me, my lord," interposed Father Healy, " all 
my footmen left without notice this morning and I have not 
had time to replace them ; I will take your coat myself if you 
will kindly allow me." 

"I'll earn sixpence, Father Healy," said Earl Spencer, 
when the genial Padre was hastening from his own dinner- 
table to attend a sick call, and his Excellency helped him on 
with his coat in the hall. 

" And I," retorted Father Healy, " will ' take the benefit 
of the Act.' " 

Father Healy was poor. The income of his parish did not 
exceed £200 a year at the outside, and he used to say good- 
humouredly he did not know how he would live at all if it 
were not for the " outdoor relief " he received. His outdoor 
relief, which took the form of fruit, game and wine, he freely 
shared with the poorest of his parishioners. 

Nor were game from the preserves, fruit from the hot- 
houses and wines from the cellars of the nobility the only 
forms which Father Healy 's " outdoor relief " assumed. 
His well-to-do parishioners made liberal contributions to his 
larder. A fine clutch of young ducks arrived among these 
gifts, and Father Healy watched their progress from the 
pond to the table with lively satisfaction. Seeing them 
sporting in the water, he exclaimed with a whimsical com- 
passion, " Poor innocents, how they enjoy themselves, 
never thinking that my green peas are growing on the other 
side of the garden wall ! " 

Cardinal McCabe loved to tell the story of his first visit to 



64 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Father Healy's parish. His Eminence attended in cope 
and mitre at the humble church in Little Bray to administer 
the sacrament of confirmation. 

" I hear you have got a grand cathedral here," he said 
jestingly when Father Healy hurried to receive him at the 
gate. 

" ' Enter, its grandeur overwhelms you not,' " was Father 
Healy's ready reply, quoting from Byron's description of 
St. Peter's at Rome. 

On another occasion he asked a priest to assist him in 
some special ceremonial. The priest excused himself, 
saying he knew little about ceremonies. 

" My dear fellow," said Father Healy, " you do not know 
less than I do." 

" I am sure to lose myself," said the priest. 

" No one can be lost in my church," retorted Father Healy. 

The gifted Father Healy, the chosen friend of the great 
ones of the world, was of humble origin and was never 
ashamed of it. His father was a provision merchant in 
James' Street, and to the end Father Healy retained pleasant 
recollections of his father's occupation. 

One day when driving in a gig with an aristocratic friend 
their way was blocked by a drove of pigs. 

The aristocrat so far forgot himself as to exclaim : 

" Damn those swine ! " 

Father Healy quietly interposed, " I would rather see 
them saved." 

I remember reading somewhere a story of a Protestant 
bishop who, on receipt of some complaints of an incumbent 
of his diocese, wrote privately to a churchwarden in the 
parish concerning the clergyman in question, to inquire 
if he preached the true gospel and was correct in his conver- 
sation and carriage. 

" He preaches the gospel right enough," the reply ran, 
" but he keeps no carriage." . 

The reply fits Father Healy. He preached the gospel, but 
he kept no carriage. He never had a conveyance of his own, 
and on one occasion driving in a phaeton he encountered a 
nobleman of his acquaintance. 



FATHER JAMES HEALY 65 

" Hello, Father Healy," exclaimed his lordship, " do 
you keep a phaeton ? " 

" No," replied the priest, with absolute truth, " but I 
keep a curate that does." 

After all, it is no small wonder that Father Healy lives 
in the mind of the general public chiefly as a sayer of good 
things, for no man that ever lived said better. He has been 
compared to Sydney Smith, but the comparison is hardly 
just— to Father Healy. The wit of the Irishman was not the 
less brilliant of the two, and he had a quiet, keen humour 
which was all his own. There never was a stauncher friend : 
he maintained to the last his friendship with Judge Keogh, 
even after Judge Keogh became generally obnoxious to the 
priests and people of Ireland by his ferocious judgment in 
the Galway election petition. But Father Healy did not 
spare his friend an occasional sharp touch where the occasion 
seemed to demand it. 

In a quasi-political trial Father Healy was summoned as 
a witness, and was chaffed by Judge Keogh about the dangers 
of cross-examination. 

" What will you do. Father Healy," said the judge, " if 
that villain Butt cross-examines you as to your friendship 
with me ? " 

" I will do my best," replied Father Healy. 

" What will you answer," the judge persisted, "if he 
asks you ' Is it true that you a good Catholic and an Irish- 
man are a friend of the infamous Judge Keogh ? ' " 

" I will appeal to the court for protection," retorted 
Father Healy. " I will say, ' My lord, am I bound to in- 
criminate myself ? ' " 

On another occasion the judge met him and stopped him. 
" Father Healy," said he abruptly, " I have a crow to 
pluck with you." 

" Let it be a turkey, and I will be with you at six p.m.," 
said Father Healy. 

"All right," said the judge, dehghted at the chance of 
Father Healy's company, " but I must have the crow too." 

" Then," said Father Healy, " I hope it will be a crow 
without caws." 



66 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Another of Father Healy's special friends was Father 
Meehan, a distinguished author whose caustic tongue 
aUenated most of his acquaintances. Even Father Healy 
hiruself did not always escape, but he gave as good as he 
got. They travelled together on the Continent, and Father 
Healy took occasion more than once to give Father Meehan a 
touch of the caustic he so freely applied to others. On one 
occasion at an hotel, meeting some friends, and ignoring the 
fact that Father Meehan was within earshot, he proceeded 
to describe him to the company. 

" Do you see that fellow yonder ? Though we are not on 
speaking terms we are obliged to travel together because he 
cannot manage one word of the French and is obliged to 
come to me to help him out of every difficulty." 

The fact that Father Meehan was an admirable linguist 
gave special sting to the description. 

Next day Father Healy received a curt note from Father 
Meehan intimating that they must part company, and 
requesting the return of a razor he had lent. Father Healy 
replied : 

" My dear Meehan, I return you the razor. If you should 
want to commit suicide I should advise you to get it ground 
first." 

Finding, however, that Father Meehan took his pleasan- 
tries too seriously. Father Healy wrote : " Life is too short 
for this kind of folly. Come and dine with me to-morrow." 
Henceforward their friendship was without a break. 

Father Healy wrote no books and made no speeches. 
There was nothing of the controversialist about him, he 
" lacked gall to make oppression bitter." " Of manners 
gentle and affections mild, in wit a man, simplicity a child," 
it was his mission in life to give delight and hurt not. 

In Ireland among the extremists Father Healy was not 
popular, but no man did more to disarm bigotry and 
prejudice with which Irishmen were regarded on the other 
side of the Channel. His witticisms were keen indeed, but 
always kindly and left no sting behind. 

Never posing as a politician, he distributed his good- 
humoured raps with perfect impartiality to the extremists 



FATHER JAMES HEALY 67 

of both sides. Meeting a parish priest who had been active 
in the agrarian agitation, Father Healy asked him how he 
was getting on at pohtics. 

" Oh, Father Healy," the friend rephed, " I am getting 
too old for politics, I leave all that kind of thing to my 
curate." 

" Quite right," Father Healy retorted, " quite right. It 
would never suit you at your time of life to lie out at night 
in a wet ditch for a pot-shot at a landlord. You would get 
your death from rheumatism." 

On the other hand, when Mr. Balfour on one occasion 
asked him if there was any truth in the statements in the 
Nationalist papers that he was generally disliked in Ireland, 
Father Healy promptly replied : 

" My dear sir, if the devil were half so well hated my 
occupation would be gone." 

To attempt a selection of his good things is to attempt the 
impossible. They flowed from him freely and carelessly as 
the jewels from the lips of the little girl in the fairy tale, and 
only a few have been picked up and treasured in the memory 
of his friends and admirers. 

Nothing happier can be imagined than his reply to the 
dyspeptic priest whom he encountered fresh from his sea- 
water bath, and who, having assured him that he often 
derived much benefit from drinking a tumblerful of salt 
water, anxiously inquired : 

" Do you think I might venture on a second ? " 

Father Healy, after grave consideration, solemnly 
answered : 

" I think you might, I don't believe it would be missed." 

On another occasion there was a discussion in company 
regarding an illiterate acquaintance who had suddenly 
taken to constant attendance in Kildare Street Library. 
Various opinions were advanced to account for this meta- 
morphosis. One of the company at last suggested that he 
had heard their friend was about " to bring out a book." 
Father Healy interposed with a quiet objection : 

" I don't think he can, he is too well watched." 

A familiar friend introducing Father Healy to his new 



68 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

library and pointing to the books on the well-filled shelves, 
exclaimed : 

" You see around you my dearest friends ! " 

Father Healy took a volume from a shelf and examined it. 

" I observe," he said quietly, " that you don't cut your 
friends/' 

Not less felicitous was his retort to his friend the Pro- 
testant Archbishop, whom he met as he was hurrying on for 
a train. The Archbishop showed him his watch and assured 
him that they had abundance of time. They arrived to see 
the train steaming out of the station. 

The Archbishop was much distressed. " I cannot tell 
how it happened, Father Healy ; it is a valuable presenta- 
tion watch and I had the utmost faith in it." 

" Better have had good works in it," retorted Father 
Healy. 

He had a discussion with a distinguished lady at a garden 
party at the Viceregal Lodge as to the part favouritism 
played in the Irish promotions. The lady stoutly maintained 
that success was the reward of ability and industry. 

" Men get on," she said, " by sticking at their business." 

Father Healy indicated a lawyer politician who had just 
risen to a very distinguished position. " How would you 
say he got on ? " he asked innocently. 

" By sticking at his business," the lady stoutly replied. 

" You surprise me," said Father Healy; " I always thought 
he got on by sticking at nothing." 

Father Healy could take a joke as well as make one. 
There was no taint in his nature of that prudery that takes 
offence where none is intended. 

It is told, with what truth I know not, that one Christmas 
night at a small gathering at the Viceregal Lodge the beautiful 
Countess Spencer (Spenser's "Faerie Queene," as she was 
called in Ireland) stood defiantly under a cluster of silver 
berries and sent a playful challenge to Father Healy. 
"Now, Padre, now is your chance under the mistletoe." 

Like a flash came the smiling reply : 

" Oh, no, my lady, we only do that suh rosa." 

I was walking with Father Healy through Westmorland 



FATHER JAMES HEALY 69 

Street when a ragged loafer came begging to him. Pointing 
after him as he slouched away, sixpence richer than he came, 
Father Healy said to me : 

" That's a nice condition, for a poor Irish landlord." 

" Why in the name of wonder," I demanded, "do you 
say that fellow is an Irish landlord ? " 

" He has the universal and infallible hall-mark." 

" And that is ? " 

" A rent in a rear." 

On another occasion I met Father Healy hurrying along 
the platform in Westland Row Station. The fish for one of 
his little dinners had miscarried. 

" I am looking for a lost sole," he explained. 

" Well," said I, when the situation was made plain to me, 
" I hope it will be a good sole when you find it." 

" If it is not," Father Healy promptly responded, " it will 
be damned." 

I have been often in company with this genial priest, and 
have been kept in a constant state of delight and amusement 
during the evening, but when I attempted afterwards to 
remember the good stories which delighted the company, 
I found my memory dazzled by his brilliancy as one's eyes 
are dazzled by too much light, and only remember how 
much we laughed during the evening and who made the 
laughter. 

Though Father Healy deservedly ranks as one of the 
brightest and most genial of Irish humorists, though as a 
sayer of good things he holds his own with Swift, Moore, 
Curran and O'Connell, yet amongst those who knew him 
best it is the unostentatious piety and kindly heart, " open 
as day to melting charity," of the Soggarth Aroon, that are 
best remembered. 

The following is one of the many stories told of his 
whimsical benevolence. Father Healy had in his parish and 
under his charge a schoolmistress whom he regarded with 
special favour. The girl was musical and anxious to cultivate 
her talent. With this object she resolved to buy a piano on 
the three years' system, and applied to Father Healy for the 
necessary certificate of character to be forwarded with her 



70 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

application. She was much distressed for two long days to 
receive no reply, and feared she had offended the priest, 
but on the third day Father Healy himself came to her 
cottage and behind him came a donkey cart containing a 
piano. 

" It's my own, my dear," he said. " I am getting too old 
for music, so instead of giving you a character which you 
don't require, I give you a piano which you do." 

His curate, the Rev. Joseph Burke, who knew him well 
and loved him, pays an eloquent tribute to his illustrious 
friend. 

" The world," he said, " of which he was an ornament, 
knew him and idolized him, but the few who were acquainted 
with his other and inner life, his childlike faith and tender 
piety, revered and blessed him, not for his mental power only, 
but also and more so, for his hidden goodness. The cheery 
word, that so often sweetened the gift from his open hand, 
is still cherished in the hearts of the poor of his parish." 

On one occasion, at the late Lord Justice FitzGibbon's 
table. Lord Randolph Churchill paid a compliment to Father 
Healy in a style essentially his own. 

" You are a dangerous man. Father Healy. It is well 
for us Protestants that all priests are not like you. Padre." 

Lord Randolph was often cynical, and the guests looked 
grave, not knowing what was to follow. 

" How so ? " asked the Padre, quite at his ease. 

" Because in that case," replied Lord Randolph, " we 
would all become Catholics." 




From a photograph by Schroeder, Dublin. 

Rev. Father Tom Burke, O.P. 



CHAPTER VIII 
FATHER TOM BURKE 

A prince of preachers — An unrivalled humorist — Extracts frona his letters 
—His life in Rome — The earliest remembrance of his childhood— Finn 
Macool and Finnesse — " An ould goose " — His mother-in-law — 
Mimicking a cardinal — Hoaxing a bishop. 

OF Father Tom Burke also it may be truly said that he 
was above all things a devout Christian priest. But 
there was no taint of the sour-souled Puritan in him. He 
was as light-hearted as a child and as full of the innocent 
enjoyment of life. " How easy it is, Matt," he said to me 
one day in the garden at Tallagh, " to serve God joyfully in 
this beautiful world ! " 

The greatest preacher of his generation he was as fluent 
in Italian as in English, and his pre-eminence was as fully 
recognized in Rome as in Ireland. " The Prince of Preach- 
ers " was the name conferred on him by the late Pope after 
hearing him in St. Peter's. 

Of stately presence, with a rich, sonorous voice that filled 
the largest church like articulate and harmonious thunder, 
he swayed with despotic power the hearts of his congregation. 
This is no place for sermons, but I cannot refrain from 
repeating a characteristic passage in a scorching denuncia- 
tion of the vice of intemperance. 

He described the drunkard lying helpless in the gutter. 

" A stray dog comes up to him, snuffs at him, wags his tail 
and walks away contemptuously. The dog can walk, the 
man can't." 

The same evening at dinner a good-humoured parish priest 
chaffed Father Tom on the distinction between his precept 
and practice. 

71 



72 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" You preached us a great sermon against drink, Father 
Tom," he said, " but you don't seem to misHke your own 
tumbler of punch." 

" I preached against drunkenness, not against drink," 
retorted Father Tom ; " I have no quarrel with drink in 
moderation. Tell me," he added abruptly, with a twinkle 
in his eye, " did you ever see a merry-meeting round a 
pump ? " 

At one time I was pressed by Father Burke's sister 
Bedilia to write his Life, and for this purpose a number of his 
letters were put into my hands. The work was anticipated 
by the late Mr. Fitzpatrick, but the letters were not recalled 
nor published. I am tempted to give a few extracts here for 
the edification of those in whose memory Father Tom lives 
only as an eloquent preacher and an unrivalled humorist. 
They afford glimpses of the private character and life of the 
man — humble, affectionate, devout. 

The letters are written to his mother and his sisters. They 
are the simple outpourings of a warm heart with no pretence 
to grace of style. They were never, of course, intended for 
the public, but using the discretion given me by his sister 
I venture to extract a passage here and there which may be 
published without any indiscreet intrusion on the private 
life of the great Dominican. 

The first of the series, written from Perugia to his sister 
Mary in Galway, is dated as far back as June, 1848. Matters 
of private concern and public interest are delightfully 
mixed up in the letter. He mentions incidentally that his 
" whole worldly wealth consists of twelve shillings," but he 
adds, " every day is adding to my size, health and happi- 
ness." " Thank God," he writes, " for the splendid flow 
of health I am enjoying ; everything agrees with me. The 
Italians say my growth is observable after a week. When 
we visit the nuns they all exclaim : ' Borgio grew a great 
piece since we saw him last ! ' The habit which was too 
long in January had to be lengthened in April." Mingled 
with private news and inquiries he writes of public affairs : 
" We are enjoying a profound peace in the ecclesiastical 
state at present. There were some disturbances at Rome, 



FATHER TOM BURKE 73 

but they are passed, and the temporal sceptre is still wielded 
by our immortal pontiff." 

The following extract, written, it is always to be remem- 
bered, frankly from a brother to a sister, is the earliest 
record of success in the pulpit of the greatest Catholic 
preacher of his generation. 

" My sermon on Holy Thursday gave universal satis- 
faction. The deacon, who possesses talents of the first order, 
for he is a poet and an orator, made me repeat my discourse 
before him several times in his room, so I delivered it before 
the convent much better than I expected." The eloquence 
of the boy preacher is appropriately rewarded : " On Easter 
Sunday," he writes, "the Superior sent me a dish of most 
delicious sweetmeats." " I am nearly six months vested," 
the letter concludes, "and after six months more I will make 
the solemn vows of profession. Pray for me that I may 
make them with fervour and observe them with religious 
fidelity, that becoming a good son of our holy father St. 
Dominick, through the protection of my patron the angelic 
doctor St. Thomas, I may still remain your most loving 
brother, N. A. T. Burke." 

The next letter, written just a year later, in June, 1849, 
discloses a wonderful change from tranquillity to feverish 
anxiety in the Eternal City. 

" These," he writes, " are fearful times in Rome. Troops 
are pouring in from all quarters, the enemy are daily drawing 
their lines nearer, everyone is armed and daily expecting 
the assault. Much blood will flow before the Holy Father 
returns. We have not the cholera yet, but being in France 
they say it will soon visit Italy. I have heard, but I hope 
it is not true, that they have dug a mine under St. Peter's 
in order to blow it up if they are driven out. What a crime 
that would be against the whole Catholic world ! When I 
first entered the great church, I felt as if I were struck dumb 
with amazement, my soul was exalted as if endeavouring to 
burst the earthly bonds that held it as I gazed on that vast 
and wondrous dome." 

Mingled with these exciting tidings are eager inquiries for 
the local gossip of his native town. " In your answer," he 



74 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

writes, " send me all the news you can think of. I read with 
eagerness all news of Galway." 

Indeed, Galway is constantly in his thoughts and letters. 
On 15 October, 1853, he writes from Woodchester to his 
sister Norah, who apparently has just sent him an enormous 
cake, that he "no longer delights in sweets," and bids her 
send next time instead of a cake " a box of Arran gurnity or 
dried ling." " I know that a bit of really well-cured Galway 
fish would be quite acceptable to my brothers here, and it 
would besides raise ' the ancient citie of the Tribes ' in their 
estimation, for what with the miserable specimen of a 
Galway man they have in me, and what with the hints and 
insinuations of certain gentlemen from Cork and its neigh- 
bourhood, I fear their estimate of our great city is a little 
below the just standard." So the Galway reputation was 
redeemed by a box of ling. 

Here is an interesting extract from a letter, written from 
Rome on the last day of the year 1856, to his sister 
Bridget : 

" I fear you will be half vexed with me when I tell you 
I never spent so happy, so perfectly happy, a Christmas. I 
went to St. Peter's at one o'clock on Christmas night and I 
heard matins and High Mass, which began at one and ended 
at five. Oh, if you only saw the place lighted up and heard 
the music ; you know it is unlike the music of any other time 
of the year. The whole object of the finest choir in the 
world was to realize Bethlehem to the people's mind. 
Consequently the matins, lauds and Mass were a succession of 
the most delightful simple airs, such as shepherds would sing 
to a little child. Then the choir of angels was also repre- 
sented : lovely solos, and now and then a burst of song 
from all together with delightful turns and thrills like the 
second part of the little Irish melody ' How dear to me the 
hour.' Oh, I was so happy, and so sorry when it was all 
over. Then at seven I said my three masses at one of the 
seven privileged altars of St. Peter's. The first was for Dad, 
Mama, Mary and B. B., the second for poor Nano and the 
souls of the faithful, the third was for myself, so you see I 
was on that blessed morning a good son, a good brother 



FATHER TOM BURKE 75 

and a good egoist, and now I am a good trumpeter of my 
own praise." 

In the Lent of 1865 Father Tom Burke sprang into his 
full fame as a preacher. All Rome went wild about him. 
The church where he preached was thronged to the doors, 
the intensity of interest grew at each successive sermon, 
until the Pope himself declared him to be the greatest of 
Catholic preachers, and the loud vibration of his fame 
reached to his own land. This is how that triumphant 
success is described in a letter to his sister Bedilia, written 
in the May of that year : 

" The preaching is all over for the year. You will be glad 
to hear that on the whole my Lent in Rome was a success. I 
did not expect it, as I have seen other and far cleverer men than 
I am break down and fail lamentably. Besides, my coming 
after such a man as the Archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal 
Manning, was an ordeal. But God was good to me, as He 
always is, and helped me." 

But all this is a bit off the line on which these reminiscences 
are intended to run. I set out to write about Father Tom 
only as a humorist, one of the greatest I have ever known, 
and I have been betrayed into a eulogy of the preacher. 
Father Tom differed essentially from Father Healy, though 
each was supreme in his own line. Father Healy was a wit. 
Father Tom was a humorist. The one excelled in flashing 
repartee, the other in admirable mimicry and inimitable 
story-telling. Father Healy loved best to perform in a 
conversational orchestra where he always played first 
fiddle, Father Burke was essentially a soloist. He mono- 
polized the conversation, but no one ever complained of the 
monopoly. 

There are two classes of humorists. One who sits at the 
feast of humour with funereal voice and aspect, while all 
round him the table is in a roar. The other who laughs 
with the best, fully relishing the good things which he pro- 
vides. To the latter order Father Tom Burke belonged, and 
it is on that account all the more difficult to recapture the 
humour of his stories. They need, for full enj oyment , the touch 
of the vanished hand, the sound of the voice that is still. 



76 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

But I am bound to attempt it, though failure be inevitable. 
My very first recollection of Father Tom is at a dinner-party 
at my father's house, when the conversation turned on the 
vagaries of memory and one of the guests, in a somewhat 
sentimental fashion, asked Father Tom what was the 
earliest recollection of his childhood, 

" I remember," replied Father Tom gravely, " when I was 
very young, I think I was about six months and four days 
at the time, I cannot be sure to the day, but I remember 
I was lying in my cradle sucking my big toe ; it was a habit I 
had at the time, but I gave it up as I grew older. My mother 
came in and chirruped to me, but I took no notice of the 
woman ; then she went and put seven pence in coppers on the 
chimney-piece and left the room. About ten minutes later 
the servantmaid came in. She looked at me and I looked at 
her, but she did not seem a bit afraid of me, for she went over 
to the chimney-piece and took the seven pence and put them 
in her pocket. Well, I remember distinctly thinking, as soon 
as I am able to talk I will tell my mother of that maid." 

Father Burke seldom told a story in the first person, 
generally the imaginary narrator was a Galway peasant 
whose brogue was admirably mimicked. Here is the version 
of a quaint old Irish legend which I heard him tell at a big 
dinner-party : 

" A big, enormous giant got wind of the word beyond in 
Scotland of the great name, Finn, our own giant, was making 
for himself in this country. The Scotch giant was mad allout 
at the talk that was going on all around, and nothing in the 
world would please him but to come over and fight Finn. 
So over he comes on the Giant's Causeway up in the north, 
all as one of ourselves would cross a river on stepping-stones, 
and the water nowhere above his knees. 

" When Finn heard of his coming he was a good deal dis- 
turbed in his mind, for the Scotch giant was five or six times 
bigger again than what he himself was. 

" ' I'm off for a day,' he said one morning bright and 
early to his wife. 

" ' Ah, then, what would be bringing you out in the wet 
that way ? ' said his wife. 



FATHER TOM BURKE 77 

" * Well, I heard tell there is a big omadhaun of a Scotch 
giant coming over to fight me and I'd be afeard I'd hurt the 
crature, seeing as what he is weak in the head be all accounts/ 

" His wife guessed on the mortal minute what was up 
with him, but she never let on. 

" ' Would it plaze you, astore, to frighten him back to 
Scotland again all the way, and no one the worse of it ? ' 

" ' Could it be done ? ' sez Finn. 

" ' If you'll be led be me,' sez his wife, ' it's aisy to do.' 

" When Finn agreed to her schame she dressed him up in 
the baby's clothes and put him sleeping in the bed for a 
baby. Then she made two big griddle cakes and set them 
to bake be the fire, and an iron griddle within in the middle 
of one of them, 

" She had hardly done her work when who comes up the 
hill but me big bould Scotch giant, and him walking like an 
earthquake and a big tree in his fist that he pulled up for a 
walking-stick. When he put his head in at the half -door it 
darkened all the place. 

" ' God save all here,' he sez, for he had learned that much 
manners anyways since he had come to Ireland. 

" ' God save you kindly,' sez Finn's wife, ' and won't you 
step in, me good man ? ' 

" ' Is the master of the house within ? ' sez the Scotch 
giant. 

" ' Then he's not,' sez Finn's wife, ' but if you step in and 
wait for him he won't be very long now.' 

" ' I've come over from Scotland to fight him,' sez the 
other, very determined like. 

" ' Faix, an' it's welcome you are,' sez Finn's wife, letting on 
she was delighted with the news. ' Draw down the child's 
stool then, and have an air of the fire while you are waiting. 
Himsel' will be delighted to meet you ; we had word of your 
comin', and it was only yesterday he was sayin' to me he 
would be rather baitin' you than aitin' the best dinner that 
ever was cooked.' 

" The Scotch giant wasn't mightily pleased at that, but 
Finn in the cradle within began laughin' fit to break his 
sides. 



y% RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" ' What's that, what's that ? ' sez the Scotch giant, 
jumping up at the quare sound. 

" ' That/ sez Finn's wife, as she med for the cradle, ' sure, 
that's the baby cryin', and me heart's scalded tryin' to plaze 
him.' 

" ' He's a fine-grown child,' sez the Scotch giant when he 
seen the big head of Finn stickin' out from under the 
blankets. 

" ' Fine enagh,' sez Finn's wife ; * musha, go long out 
of that with you, sure it's humbuggin' me you are to call 
that little grow-badly the like. Sure, Tom Thumb is the 
name Finn has on the weeshy, pernickerty little cratereen.' 
" Bedad, this took a terrible rise out of the Scotch giant, 
thinkin' to himself what the father must be like at all at all. 
He jumped up at once from his stool. 
" ' I must be goin',' sez he. 
" ' An' why ? ' sez she. 
" ' I'm in a hurry,' sez he. 
" ' Wait till your hurry is over,' sez she. 
" ' 1 can't,' sez he. ' You'll excuse me to your husband, 
ma'am,' sez he as polite as you plaze. 

" ' You'll have a bit and sup,' sez she, ' after your long 
walk ? ' 

" ' I haven't the time,' sez he. 

'"Sure, you wouldn't bring the curse of the house on you, 
goin' off that ways ; the cake is ready there be the fire, and 
it's time to feed the child, anyways.' 

" With that she took up the two griddle cakes that were 
bakin' be the fire and gave one of them to Finn in the cradle, 
who began munchin' it out of face, and the other with the 
iron griddle in it she gave to the Scotch giant. 

" The Scotch giant thought it quare food for a baby, and he 
was in greater haste than ever to be off before the father 
would be back. 

" In his hurry he took a hard bite at the cake. Then he 
let a roar out of him that near took the roof off the house, 
for three of his best teeth cracked off on the griddle. 

" * What's the matter with you ? ' sez Finn's wife, as inno- 
cent as you plaze ; ' don't you like your cake, me good man? ' 



FATHER TOM BURKE 79 

" But the Scotch giant never answered her yis, aye or no, 
but tore out of the house roarin' meeha murder, and back 
with him hot foot over the Causeway to his own country," 

" That," concluded Father Tom triumphantly, " was how 
Finn bate the big Scotch giant." 

" Bravo, Finn ! " shouted an enthusiastic guest. 

" It wasn't Finn that won that battle," said the Bishop 
of Canea, who happened to be present on the occasion, " it 
was Finnesse." 

Father Tom always declared he heard this story just as he 
told it from a peasant at a cabin fireside in Galway. 

Here is another fireside tale : — 

" Father Pat," said Darby Fahy, and he took dudeen from 
his mouth to say it, " was always a good warrant to do a 
good turn to any poor soul that wanted it, so when he saw 
ould Bridget Moloney and her heavy basket tryin' to get 
through the narrow stile together, he held the basket for 
her till she got through. 

" ' Then what have you in the basket, Mrs. Moloney ? ' 
sez his reverence. 

" ' Crubeens, your reverence,' sez Mrs. Moloney. 

" ' And what are you goin' to do with the crubeens ? ' 

" * Ate them, your reverence, of course.' 

" ' Then where did you get the crubeens, Mrs. Moloney ? ' 
sez his reverence again. 

" ' Beyand, in the town beyand, your reverence. I sould 
a goose and I bought crubeens with the money I got for her.' 

" ' Then that was a quare thing to do, Mrs. Moloney,' sez 
his reverence. ' A goose is better aitin' than crubeens any 
day.' 

" * Faix, it's easy seen you did not know that goose, your 
reverence.' 

" ' And how long did you know her, Mrs. Moloney ? ' 

" To tell your reverence no lie I met her for the first 
time the day I was married, and she was an ould goose 
then.' " 

A familiar topic of the everyday humorist gets a new 
twist in the following story of Father Tom's : — 

" Pat Fahy, me brother, was goin' down the road fair and 



8o RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

aisy to his work when he saw in a field, within a bit from him, 
a girl milkin' a cow, and an ould cow be the look of her. 
Pat was in no hurry, so he stopped awhile smokin' his pipe 
lookin' over the fence. Then all of a suddin a bull comes 
rampagin' out of another field straight at the colleen. 

" Pat roared meelia murder, and the girl looked round for 
a minute, then, if you'll believe me, she went on milkin' the 
cow quiet as ever, 

" But there was a quarer thingi than that happened. 
When the rampagin' bull was with n twenty yards of the 
girl, he stopped short, let down his tail that he had 
cocked up, faced right round and ran like a red shank from 
the field. 

" It was no wonder that Pat was surprised and wanted to 
know the rights of the story, so he crossed into the field and 
spoke to the girl, who went on milkin' as if nothin' had 
happened, 

" ' Did you hear me roarin' at you ? ' he said. 

" ' 'Tisn't deaf I am.' 

" ' And you seen the bull ? ' 

" * Of course I did, why not ? ' 

" ' And weren't you afeard ? ' 

" ' Not the laste taste in the world ; sure, it was the bull 
that was afeard.' 

" ' Then why should the bull be afeard ? ' 

" 'I was milkin' his mother-in-law.' " 

Here is another favourite story of his : — 

" Quare things happen in the country sometimes," said 
Darby Fahy. " An ould maid was goin' down to the West 
of Ireland, and she had with her a rale beautiful parrot in a 
cage. Somehow the cage got open and the parrot flew off 
with himself into the wilds of Connemara, where the like was 
never seen before. He lit down on a gate, and within in the 
field there was an old man diggin' potatoes. 

" When the decent man saw the parrot sittin' there all 
colours of the rainbow, he stuck his spade in the head of a 
ridge and came over to have a good look at him. 

" While the man was starin' as if the eyes would jump 
out of his head, all of a suddin the parrot calls out : 



FATHER TOM BURKE 8i 

" ' Pretty Poll, fine day, fine day.' 

" With that the man takes off his hat as polite as you 
plaze. 

" ' 1 humbly beg your honour's pardon,' he said, * faix, I 
thought you were some kind of a bird.' " 

We are not always grateful to the man who can " gie us 
to see oursels as others see us." Father Tom was a super- 
lative mimic from whom no one was safe. 

The late Cardinal Cullen, one day at a big dinner, good- 
humouredly taxed the great Dominican with having 
mimicked a prince of the Church. 

" Does your Eminence believe I would be guilty of such 
a sacrilege ? " expostulated Father Tom. 

" I know it," retorted the Cardinal, " and as a penance I 
order you to get up and repeat the performance here and 
now." 

Father Tom, with many protestations, complied. The 
imitation was perfect, every little peculiarity of voice and 
manner was reproduced. The guests shouted with laughter 
and delight. But in three minutes the Cardinal had had 
quite enough of it. 

" Sit down, sir," he cried testily, " sit down at once ! " 

A little later the Cardinal had his revenge. Father Tom, 
coming up from Queenstown, encountered in the railway 
carriage a bishop, who had just crossed over from America, 
They speedily got to be good friends, and on the way up 
Father Tom obligingly showed him, through the carriage 
window, all the beauties of Ireland, with which, it may be 
added, the good bishop was not a little disappointed. Next 
day the bishop dined with Cardinal Cullen, and expressed 
his disappointment with Ireland. 

" But you have seen nothing of Ireland yet," said the 
Cardinal. 

" I have seen all I wanted to see," retorted the bishop 
proudly. 

" The Lakes of Killarney ? " 

" I have seen them." 

" The Giant's Causeway ? " 

" I have seen it." 



82 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" The Rock of Cashel, Croagh Patrick, Glendalough ? " 

" I have seen them all." 

" But how ? " asked the bewildered Cardinal. " I thought 
you said you had only just come across ? " 

** I arrived in Queenstown yesterday," replied the bishop. 
" A most agreeable clergyman showed me all those places 
through the window of the carriage as we travelled up 
together to Dublin." 

A light broke in on Cardinal CuUen. " That's Father Tom 
Burke's doing," he cried, " as sure as fate." He explained 
to the bishop he had been made the victim of the famous 
Dominican. " I will have him to dinner to-morrow," he 
added, " and you can have it out with him." 

A man who was present told me that for the first time in 
his life he saw Father Tom Burke embarrassed when he was 
brought face to face with the bishop whom he had hum- 
bugged so shamelessly. But his embarrassment lasted only 
three seconds, and before the dinner was half over he and 
the bishop were fast friends. When later Father Tom 
visited America on his successful mission of refuting Froude's 
attack on the Catholic Church and the Irish people, there 
was no one from whom he had a warmer welcome than from 
the victimized prelate. 



CHAPTER IX 
CALLED TO THE BAR 

Dinners in London — The "Temple Forum" — Irreligious Hindoos — An 
inhospitable host — A startling translation — The law library — On the 
hazard — The dissipated Four Courts clock — An explosive jest — An 
audacious robbery — A highwayman's lawsuit. 

THROUGH all the hindering work, variety and fascina- 
tion of the Press I still continued to make my way, 
slowly but surely, to my ultimate goal — ^the Bar. I attended 
law lectures and debating society, passed examinations and 
ate dinners in Dublin and London, The dinners at one of 
the London Inns of Court, which in my day were an absolute 
essential (since abolished) to a call to the Irish Bar, were a 
costly farce. No word of law was ever mentioned at those 
dinners ; " to talk shop " was considered the worst of bad 
form by the students. It is strange enough that eating 
dinners even in Dublin should be insisted on, but that Irish 
law students should be compelled to eat dinners in London 
was wholly preposterous. The notion was, I presume, that 
Irish savages should be mollified by some intercourse with 
a superior race. 

But though the parents who paid the piper protested 
against the London dinners, they were regarded as a good 
spree by Irish students. It was my habit, with a few con- 
genial friends, to frequent those quaint public-house debating 
societies in London, and whatever might be the subject on 
the notice paper, we turned it on to Ireland. I remember 
with pride we carried a vote in favour of Home Rule in the 
" Temple Forum " twenty years before it was carried in the 
House of Commons. 

83 



84 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

We were an impecunious race, we Irish students, and the 
half-crown dinner provided at the Middle Temple was to us a 
banquet of the gods. The half-pint of wine was a special 
attraction. A friend who was keeping terms with me 
laboriously arranged that we should have four Indian 
students at our table of six. His notion was that, as their 
religion forbade them the use of wine, we should have as 
compensation for their company their share and our own. 
To his intense disgust the mild Hindoos took to their wine 
as a cat to cream. Afterwards he professed himself shocked 
at the lack of respect they displayed even for the teaching 
of " their own confounded false religion." 

Only the other day one of the most distinguished of the 
Irish judges reminded me of a somewhat embarrassing 
experience that overtook us when we were keeping terms in 
London. We were dining together at a cheap eating-house 
kept by an Italian at which we got a plate of meat for a 
shilling, and I had made some way with my dinner when I 
noticed that the meat was high, I spoke to my companion, 
whose experience up to that had been more fortunate than 
mine, and he went on eating. But a moment later he got a 
very full-flavoured morsel into his mouth. 

Thereupon we held a consultation. Shillings were of 
consequence to us in those days, so we nervously appealed 
to the waiter to get us something instead of the uneatable 
meat. The waiter referred us to the proprietor. The 
proprietor heard our appeal to the end in grim silence. 
Then he spoke : 

" It often happens," he said, " that people come to my 
place and call for dinner ; when they have half eaten they 
send for me and tell me it is bad and make demand to send 
something else, but I — I send for the police." 

In due course I passed my final examination and was called 
to the Bar. There were fifteen competitors and I was 
lucky enough to get " placed," missing the second prize by 
only a few marks. I was even more surprised than pleased 
by the result, as I had no time to go into training, being 
engaged in Press work up to the day of the examination. 

My transition from the Press to the Bar was a curious 



1 



CALLED TO THE BAR 85 

experience. It was at first a transition from excessive 
industry to absolute idleness. I took apartments in one 
of the big old-fashioned houses in Henrietta Street, once the 
residence of Lord Mount] oy, donned my brand-new wig and 
gown, hung about the Four Courts and waited. I had 
passed a good examination in the principle of law, but I was 
in blank ignorance of the practice. 

The great Palace of Justice, called the " Four Courts," 
stands on the banks of the Liffey with a huge dome 
pushing skywards and a huge central hall under the dome. 

There are always more barristers than briefs about the 
Four Courts. When the legal tyro has put on the wig and 
gown it is for the solicitors to put something into his brief 
bag. Meanwhile he stays its stomach with books and 
newspapers, preserving a decent corpulency, and waits his 
chance ; but then he has a good time on the whole while he 
is waiting. 

The popular picture of the briefless barrister conscious of 
his own neglected genius, eating his heart out in moody 
impatience, is all a mistake. As a rule he has a much more 
modest and accurate estimate of his own powers, and a very 
wholesome terror of the first brief. So he bides his time 
good-humouredly, and is lucky enough to have the Four 
Courts Library to hide in. 

The Four Courts law library deserves a word of special 
description. The English barrister, I understand, keeps to 
his chambers, and when (if ever) the solicitor arrives with the 
brief he is interviewed by the barrister's clerk. The Irish 
barrister has no chambers and no clerk ; he camps out in the 
law library, which is, in fact, the fair or market where 
barristers are hired. 

Business or no business, he daily robes himself in full 
legal toggery, climbs a flight of stairs to the law library, 
and takes his place very literally like a cabman on his hazard, 
waiting for a fare. 

Close to the entrance sat a big man with a big voice. I 
never heard elsewhere a voice of such smoothness and 
volume. Whether he was specially chosen for this accom- 
plishment I cannot say, or how the competitive examination 



86 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

was conducted. But certainly it is the one essential accom- 
plishment for his post. When any barrister is wanted by a 
solicitor for instruction, courts or consultation, this stentor 
was appealed to. 

Forthwith he sent a name thundering through the utmost 
recesses of the library. The call, pleasantly suggestive of 
briefs and fees, brought the barrister hurrying to the door. 

The library is sacred to barristers : not even solicitors can 
pass its portals. But now and again ladies flit through this 
gloomy temple of law, gazing at the crowd of men in strange 
costume bent over big books or broad papers, with the same 
kind of timid curiosity that one regards the animals feeding 
in the Zoo. 

Apart from its legal advantages the library is a wonderful 
place for social and political anecdote and gossip. I trust 
some of the stories I have presently to tell will not belie its 
reputation. A pleasant atmosphere of social equality and 
kindliness pervades the place. The veriest tyro can appeal 
in his perplexities to the most eminent leader with the 
perfect certainty of courteous and kindly assistance. 

Some men display in the library a power of concentrated 
attention that is little short of miraculous. Amid the babble 
of constant conversation, amid the incessant and stentorian 
shouting of names, those men work as composedly as in their 
own silent studies, track an intricate line of argument from 
authority to authority, or draft a complicated deed in which 
a slip might mean to the client the forfeiture of an estate. 

But even to the busiest men there are moments of re- 
laxation in the library, while to the idle men it is all relaxa- 
tion. There are always in winter-time groups gathered 
round the fires, and there good stories go the rounds with hit 
and parry and counter of lively repartee. No one is safe 
and no one is hurt. A frank comradeship and good-humour 
that makes offence impossible is the very life of the place. 
It was a mistake to call the House of Commons the best 
club in Europe. It is only the second best. The Irish 
law library is the best : I have been for some time a member 
of both and ought to know. 

It is not, as has been said, the idle men exclusively that 



CALLED TO THE BAR 87 

crowd round the library fires. It is a kind of sanctuary for 
the Bar leaders pursued by rival solicitors. On one occasion 
the most brilliant of Irish advocates, afterwards the most 
brilliant of Irish judges, the late Lord Justice FitzGibbon, 
was idling pleasantly in the midst of a gossiping group, 
where his laugh was the liveliest and his story the best. 

In the courts below half a dozen jury cases were in full 
swing. A man coming up from the courts was amazed to 
see the Nisi Prius leader idling at the library fire. 

" Halloa, FitzGibbon," he cried, "how is it you are not 
engaged in any of the cases that are on to-day ? " 

" My dear fellow," was the calm reply, " I am in all of 
them, and I like to be impartial." 

Only once in my experience or, I believe, in the experience 
of the oldest inhabitant, has the equanimity of the library 
been rudely disturbed. There was a junior barrister, son of 
the late Judge Keogh, who in spite of occasional eccen- 
tricities was treated with indulgent consideration by his 
colleagues. He was clever too, and his sense of humour had 
a knack of breaking out in startling and unexpected places. 

In the centre of the circle of fun and gossip round the 
library fire, he stood abstractedly tossing a small parcel 
wrapped in brown paper from his right hand to his left. 
The motion naturally attracted attention. 

" What's that you've got there ? " he was casually asked. 

" What a marvellous thing is modern science ! " was the 
apparently irrelevant reply. 

" What the deuce has modern science to say to it ? " 

" You see this little parcel," he showed it for a moment ; 
" only think what mighty forces modern science has stored 
up in this little handful of matter. It is dynamite. If I 
were to drop this little parcel out of my hand on the hearth- 
stone " — he began tossing it again and fumbled in his 
catch — " it would blow the library and all that are in it 
to smithereens." 

Thereupon there was a sudden exodus from the library 
like black ants from the hill when you drive a spade in. 

With a wild shout of laughter that quickened their speed 
he dropped his parcel on the hearth. 



88 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Nothing happened ! 

Returning cautiously the intimidated barristers found a 
small ink bottle, wrapped in brown paper and quite empty. 

In its Central Hall the Four Courts has an institution in 
its way as remarkable as the library. It is here that the 
profession and the public meet and mingle. This hall is 
a huge drum-shaped building ; stone-walled and stone- 
floored, with courts opening from its sides and circular 
corridors running giddily round the high glass dome which 
makes one dizzy to look up at from the floor. 

It is here the judges parade at the opening of term in full 
judicial toggery, self-conscious, blazing with scarlet and 
gold, and to the irreverent suggestive of a circus procession. 
It is here that the famous leaders of the profession are on 
view, rushing frantically across from court to court, to 
address a jury here, to cross-examine a witness there, each 
with a big brief bag under his arm and a tail of flustered 
solicitors. It is here, too, the crowds come on great 
occasions, when some exciting political trial is in progress, 
to wait for the verdict. I have seen the hall a circular 
sea of heads : I have heard its walls shaken with exultant 
cheers. 

Round the great circle are arranged marble statues of the 
leaders who in other days bustled about the hall. Some of 
these are works of art ; others not : the latter are 
the most interesting. You can see works of art in any 
good, gallery. But there is a statue of the great advocate, 
Whiteside, in the hall of the Four Courts, of which the 
like is to be found nowhere else in the world, a statue 
fearfully and wonderfully made ; a tailor's block in white 
marble. 

There used to be a colossal figure of Justice in the centre 
of the hall. But her scales got broken and the malicious 
sneered and sniggered. So to " prevent observation " the 
Benchers had the poor maimed Justice removed to the 
quiet gardens of the Inns of Court, where nursery-maids 
and children stroll and play. The Four Courts, they say, 
got on very well without her. 

But the most conspicuous object in the hall in the old 



CALLED TO THE BAR 89 

days, and the most interesting, was the clock : a huge clock 
with a great brazen face that fronted the entrance and 
misled all comers regarding the time. They have got a new 
clock there now, a respectable, commonplace, well-conducted 
clock, wholly devoid of interest or excitement. 

But some years ago the Four Courts clock was famous 
for its eccentricity ; a rollicking, dare-devil clock that 
went or stopped at its own sweet will, and kept the most 
irregular hours. At times it went so fast that it ran into 
the middle of next week before it could be brought up. 
Then it suffered from reaction and went slow, simply 
sauntered along, lagging days behind the times. 

The Four Courts clock grew to be a synonym in 
Dublin for loose living. To go like the Four Courts clock 
was to go to the dogs. 

Snarling critics, indeed, declared the clock typical of the 
place, and one morning the following lines were found 
chalked under it in huge letters on the wall, by a disappointed 
suitor, as was supposed, for the authorship was never 
claimed : — 

The Four Courts Hall a clock displays 

Of a portentous size, 
That Justice and its devious ways 
Most fitly typifies. 

Of wheels in wheels it has a lot. 

And weights that hang below. 
It always strikes when it should not. 

And stops when it should go. 

Its face conveys a pleasing doubt 

To lawyers ever dear, 
Its hands, like judges, go about 

Two circuits in a year. 

And finally, to make it show 

Analogy most strong. 
It's very often very slow. 

And almost always wrong. 

This unconscionable and incorrigible clock that could 
not tell the truth, even by accident, made a bad end. Its 
story might be worked up into a most improving children's 
book, one of the series of " Nursery Nightmares," with a 



go RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

blood-curdling moral tacked on as a terrible example to 
juvenile delinquents. 

I am indeed at a loss for a technical word to describe the 
crime of which the poor easy-going clock was ultimately 
the victim. It was certainly not petty larceny, nor was it 
highway robbery, nor burglary, nor obtaining goods under 
false pretences, though it partook of the nature of all these 
offences. It was a crime sui generis, without precedent or 
parallel, never before accomplished and never likely to be 
repeated. 

It wiU be no matter for surprise that a clock that turned 
day into night and night into day, and totally neglected its 
regular exercise, was constantly in the hands of a clock 
doctor. It made frequent excursions to the most approved 
health resorts in the city, all without avail. 

One day at noon, when business was at its briskest in the 
Four Courts, and the hall was thronged with pushing 
barristers and staring spectators, a huge van with long 
ladders on it drew up at the main entrance. A crowd of 
workmen in shirt-sleeves and paper caps shoved and 
shouldered their way across the hall to the clock. The 
ladders were set and the clock was slowly lowered, the 
crowd languidly watching the proceeding, believing the 
Board of Works was implicated. The workmen staggered 
across the hall with the huge weight and hoisted it on to the 
van. With much cracking of whip and sliding of iron-shod 
hoofs on the slippery pavement the van and its load got 
into motion, and the famous Four Courts clock disappeared 
—for ever. 

It vanished as quietly and completely as a drop of water 
that falls into the ocean. Everyone, of course, at first 
assumed an authorized removal. A week passed and a 
fortnight, and there was still a huge circular hole in the 
high wall where the clock had been. At last some careless 
inquiry was started. Question led to question, and it was 
finally discovered that no one knew anything of the clock ; 
no one had directed its removal ; no one had the least 
knowledge of its ravishers or their whereabouts. Belated 
inquiry never got upon the track. The clock had dis- 




Frank McDonough, Q.C. 



CALLED TO THE BAR 91 

appeared " like water spilt upon the plain, not to be gathered 
up again," and to the present hour no light has fallen on the 
mystery of its disappearance. 

It seems a little curious at first sight why law and levity 
should go so often together. Yet it is so. For all its prim 
formality there is a good deal of dry humour, conscious or 
unconscious, about the law. Its very incongruity is amusing. 
It is a sharp-eyed business man masquerading in a costume 
of the Middle Ages. For law can never shake itself clear of 
the grotesque, worn-out trappings of tradition. 

The legal profession is the most conservative of the 
professions, unchanging and unchangeable as the Sphinx (to 
whom, by the way, it bears an additional resemblance in its 
talent for unanswerable conundrums). Beneath its por- 
tentous wig of bristling horsehair it frowns reprovingly on 
innovation. The motto of the genuine lawyers has ever 
been " Nolimus Mutare." If they had their way then, 
indeed — 

What custom bids in all things we should do. 
The rust of antique time Jivould lie unswept. 
And mountainous error be too highly piled, 
For truth to overpeer. 

Now and again, indeed, the legislation comes with a 
broom to sweep the cobwebs out of some corner of the 
forensic firmament. But the legal spiders are immediately 
at work, and soon have the corner comfortably and closely 
curtained again. The law of England has kept " broadening 
down from precedent to precedent," until at the present 
day it is spread out into a wide maze of inexplicable con- 
tradiction and confusion. It adopts some old rule — absurd, 
perhaps, when it was first created, certainly inapplicable 
to our day, and oblivious of ridicule the law follows this rule 
to every extremity of injustice or absurdity. At best, it 
seeks to evade its authority by subterfuge or fiction. It 
never thinks of knocking the tyrant down and walking 
straight forward over its prostrate body. 

The result is confusion to lawyers and disaster to litigants, 
and to onlookers innocent amusement. A wise old lawyer, 
Frank McDonagh, q.c, was- looking over my shoulder as I 



92 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

was engaged in writing my first opinion on some apparently 
simple question. He ran his pen through the word 
" clearly." " I am clearly of opinion," I began. 

" My dear young friend," he said, " never write you are 
' clearly ' of opinion on any question of law. When you 
have my years and experience the question you will always 
have to determine is on which side the doubt predominates." 

To the novice, indeed, the study of the law is utter 
bewilderment. " Case law," as the lawyers call it, is a maze 
without a clue. In the law library of Dublin there are tens 
of thousands of volumes in any one of which may lurk the 
decision governing the matter in hand. With grim humour 
the law assumes that everyone knows it and punishes the 
ignorant equally with the guilty. 

On this legal treadmill I laboured hopelessly during the 
first year after my call to the Bar, 

Mastering the lawless science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances. 

Yet the study was not wholly without compensation. 

In the Law Reports are to be found occasionally jests as 
good as the best of the much-maligned Joe Miller. It is, 
for example, gravely recorded — these eyes have read it — 
in one quaint old volume of Law Reports how two highway- 
men fell out over the division of spoils, and one brought a 
partnership suit in an Equity Court against the other. 

The pleadings were all in regular form : " the trading 
partnership " was fully set out ; " the stock in trade," 
consisting of " masks, horses, swords, pistols, blunder- 
busses," was regularly scheduled. 

" The said partners as aforesaid," so runs the pleading, 
" to wit the plaintiff and defendant regularly traded at 
Hounslow Heath, and at divers other highways, heaths and 
commons of the realm and elsewhere, in purses, watches, 
snuff-boxes, jewels and other articles of value, and by means 
of such trading acquired a large number of said purses, 
watches, snuff-boxes, jewels and other articles of value as 
aforesaid. But the said defendant refused, and still neglects 
and refuses to account to the plaintiff for his equal share of 



CALLED TO THE BAR 



9'5 



the profits acquired by the said trading, as by the aforesaid 
partnership expressed and provided." 

The parties to this remarkable equity suit were hanged, 
and their sohcitors had their ears dipped off and were 
clapped into prison ; so the grim joke ended. 

The game, indeed, is almost always amusing to the 
onlookers, if not to the parties, when the law plays blind- 
man's buff in the courts looking for justice. A law court 
ma}^ be fairly described as a theatre, with the added interest 
of reality. Therein are enacted " tragedy, comedy, pastoral, 
pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-pastoral, tragi- 
cal-historical-historical-pastoral," often blended together, as 
in real life, in inextricable confusion. Almost invariably 
we find the newspaper report of a trial, even of a murder 
trial, punctuated with " laughter." 



CHAPTER X 
ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 

Frank McDonagh, q.c. — The Nestor of the Bar — His definition of a lie — 
Lunch in court — A battle with buUrushes — " I never expected your 
lordship could " — The "big Serjeant" — The king of cross-examiners — 
A ball of worsted saves a life. 

A DIVISION of labour is usually observed in court : jokes 
are provided for the most part by the judges, and 
laughter by the counsel. But now and again the fun breaks 
out in unexpected places, and witnesses, and even the 
parties themselves, provide their contribution to the 
general amusement. It may, I think, be fairly assumed 
that if law courts are amusing, Irish law courts have their 
full share of the fun. I offer no warranty of truth in whole 
or part for the stories that follow. Of many I was eye- and 
earwitness, others I have only on hearsay, but I am willing 
to let them all stand on their own merits. A good story is 
none the worse for being seven-eighths invention ; a dull 
story is none the better for being all true. 

Many a half -forgotten jest and tale linger round the hall 
and library of the Four Courts, their echoes growing gradu- 
ally fainter as they pass from tongue to ear and from ear to 
tongue. I shall here endeavour to catch the dying sounds 
and fix them, as in a phonograph, for future hearers. 

I shall not assume any authority or exercise any discretion 
in regard to those fugitive anecdotes. I shall not attempt 
to settle the order of precedent or merit, nor, like a crafty 
huxter, put all my best berries on top, but will as an honest 
dealer pour them all out higgledy-piggedly before my 
readers without any regard to the quality of the fruit or the 
garden in which it grew. 

Frank McDonagh was one of the most prominent amongst 

94 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 95 

the great advocates that graced the Irish Bar when I was 
called. He was leading counsel for the defence in the state 
trial in Dublin in which Mr. Parnell and a number of his 
colleagues, including Mr. Dillon and Mr. Sexton, were, 
during the height of the Land League agitation, indicted 
before two judges and a special jury on a charge of con- 
spiracy. Amongst the other counsels engaged for the 
defence were Mr. Samuel Walker, afterwards Lord Chan- 
cellor of Ireland, Mr. Peter O'Brien, afterwards Lord Chief 
Justice, and Mr. Richard Adams, afterwards County Court 
Judge of Limerick. The leader for the prosecution was Mr. 
Hugh Law, who also attained the dignity of Lord Chancellor. 
Judge Fitzgerald, who presided, was prompted to the 
position of a Law Lord. 

The result was a disagreement of the jury, the foreman 
alone holding out for a conviction. The memory of this 
prosecution has been blurred by the more famous London 
" Forgeries Commission," as it is called in Ireland, when 
Mr. Parnell and his colleagues were put on trial for more 
than their lives ; but the result of the Dublin trial, as is 
usual in political prosecutions, was firmly to establish the 
popularity of the Irish leader, his colleagues and his move- 
ment. 

The rare illustration of the half-forgotten Dublin trial, 
with portraits of the prominent men engaged, cannot fail 
to be of interest. 

Come first, then, thou wondrous veteran of the Irish 
Bar, long since passed from amongst us, who held for forty 
years and upwards a leading position in the profession. 
Come with courtl}^ gesture, and winning tones, and smile of 
blandest courtesy. Tell us once again your own elaborate 
and inimitable definition of a lie. 

He was, in truth, the Nestor of the Irish Bar, old and 
crafty as the Greek diplomat. The scene of the story is his 
own study. A consultation is being held in an important 
suit. No man more than he loved a consultation ; no man 
more than he believed in the venerable adage, " there is 
wisdom in counsel." Never was he greater than when in 
his own tent he had gathered his legal subordinates round 



96 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

him, and while the champagne flowed with lavish hospitality 
he arranged the conduct of the campaign — here planned a 
dashing incursion into the enemy's territory, there covered 
a weakness in the lines of the defence. 

On the occasion alluded to the plan of battle was arranged, 
every contingency seen and provided for ; one trivial 
difficulty alone remained. 

" Who," asked the commander in his most dulcet tones, 
" who is prepared to prove the handwriting of the testator ? " 

" I will do that, sir," said a young managing clerk who, by 
reason of his previous knowledge of the case, had been 
admitted to the consultation and was eager to distinguish 
himself. 

" My dear young friend," said the leader, with more than 
parental kindness, " you will render an inestimable service, 
a service not easily to be forgotten or lightly requited by 
the client whom you represent, and the firm who has been 
fortunate enough to secure your assistance. But stay," he 
added after a moment's reflection, " if my memory serves 
me aright you are the young gentleman who, in a previous 
motion in this case, in which collusion was suggested, made 
an affidavit that you were totally unacquainted with the 
testator. Is that so ? " 

" I am afraid, sir," stammered out the too zealous 
volunteer, " it is." 

" In that case, my dear young friend," rejoined the leader, 
with unabated suavity, " we will endeavour to dispense 
with the service you have so kindly offered on this present 
occasion. Will you," he continued persuasively, " will you 
allow an old man, older and more experienced than yourself, 
though I unaffectedly confess your inferior in ability, one 
who will watch your future career with profoundest interest, 
to offer you a single word of advice ? Never " — this with 
impressing solemnity befitting a high moral principle — 
" never swear in a court of justice to anything that can be 
proved to be false by a document in the possession of your 
opponent, for that would be a lie." 

Never was there a man of suaver manners than our legal 
Chesterfield. It was a tradition of the Bar that he could 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 97 

smile insinuatingly at the jury with the back of his head 
while cross-examining a refractory witness. 

This bland courtesy of manner proved, however, on 
occasion to be but the velvet cushion of the tiger's claw, the 
silken scabbard of the deadly blade. When swords were 
out it was seen at once that he was a master of fence. 
His passes were too rapid and too skilful to be parried ; 
with him it was " One, two and the third in your 
bosom ! " 

He was engaged as leader in one of the most celebrated 
Irish cases of recent times, celebrated alike for colossal 
sums in dispute and for the singular conduct of the parties 
concerned. The presiding judge, the late Judge Warren, had 
the temerity to enter into duel with the leading counsel. 
Disastrous was his defeat. 

" Sir," said the judge on one occasion, irritated by a 
courteous sarcasm which had requited a discourteous 
interruption of his own, " sir, if you imagine you assist the 
cause of your client by disrespectful observations to the 
Bench, you are much mistaken." 

" And, my lord," was the suave rejoinder, " if your lord- 
ship imagines that you sustain the dignity of the Bench by 
frivolous and irrelevant interruption of counsel, your lord- 
ship is much mistaken." 

In the same trial, and between the same persons, another 
somewhat amusing incident occurred. Counsel, in his 
politest manner, suggested an adjournment for luncheon. 
The judge saw his way at once to a dignified revenge for 
the stinging sarcasms with which he had been pelted during 
the trial, " knowing," as the bard hath it, " that the 
last of humiliations is the cutting short of a foeman's 
rations." 

" Mr. McDonagh," he retorted with frigid dignity, " I 
never partake of luncheon, and as I am anxious, in the 
interest of the public and the parties, to bring the trial to a 
speedy conclusion, I must refuse an adjournment." 

" My lord," replied the other in his most dulcet tones, " as 
I am not fortunate enough to possess the immunity from 
the cravings of weak human nature which your lordship 



98 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

enjoys, you will, I trust, allow me to partake of luncheon 
while the case is in progress." 

" Certainly," said the judge, delighted at the prospect of 
escaping, even for a short time, from his caustic criticism. 

But he reckoned without his host. 

" My young friend," said the courtly veteran, turning to 
his junior with winning courtesy, " will continue the 
examination of this witness with more skill and dexterity 
than I could possibly pretend to." 

Then he calmly beckoned to a body-servant known as the 
" faithful Rooney," by whom he was constantly attended. 

A space was cleared of books and papers on the table in 
front of the Queen's Counsel's seat. A damask tablecloth 
was spread, an elaborate luncheon of many courses, with its 
appropriate accompaniment of glass and silver, was pro- 
duced from a capacious basket, and the learned counsel 
proceeded, with all the deliberate appreciation of the accom- 
plished bon-vivant that he Vv^as, to the discussion of the 
repast. Now he daintily picked a chicken wing, now inter- 
posed a question, now sipped his champagne, now dallied 
with a jelly, now suggested an objection, now blandly 
smiled on the jury, while all the time the unhappy judge 
fretted and fumed in impotent fury on the Bench. 

No provocation could touch the temper of this embodi- 
ment of bland courtesy. Yet he maintained (in theory, at 
least) the ancient traditions of the profession, which are com- 
memorated in the costume of the Bar. The barrister's gown 
has attached to it a lot of eccentric tags and tassels which 
are a puzzle to the most experienced wearer. This triangular 
tab once supported a purse, and that an ink-horn. This 
long flap that falls over the shoulder was a sword-sheath in 
the old times, when the Templars were prompter with their 
weapons than their tongues. They remain as a memorial of 
their former usefulness, like the rudimentary tail in which 
the disciples of Darwin find proof that man was originally 
a monkey. 

Irish barristers of old days were famous duellists. Every 
counsel of eminence, from Curran to O'Connell, had " his 
man out." The fire-eating Lord Norbury was said to have 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 99 

" shot his way to the Bench." True to those traditions, 
this past -master of verbal fence always professed his willing- 
ness to exchange the bloodless battle of wit, in which he 
was supreme, for more deadly encounters. 

I remember reporting a celebrated ejectment case tried 
some years ago at MuUingar, in which a noble lord and the 
next-of-kin were scrambling for the property of an eccentric, 
deceased. The next-of-kin had been fortunate enough to 
secure the services of this silken veteran. At the close of a 
somewhat protracted argument he was brusquely accused 
by the leader of the other side, the late Judge Murphy (who 
had just himself concluded a two days' speech), of frivolous 
waste of time. 

" This," he rejoined, still blandly smiling, though his lips 
twitched a little at the corners, " this comes well from my 
learned friend after the wilderness of nonsense through 
which for the past two days he has compelled us to 
wander." 

An angry retort from his opponent elicited from him a 
courteous suggestion that he was " prepared to meet his 
learned friend at any place, at any time and with any 
weapons he might be pleased to select." 

But his opponent suggested " buUrushes," and the genial 
Baron Dowse, who tried the case, interposed good-humour- 
edly with, " Gentlemen, if you have blown off sufficient 
steam, perhaps you had better proceed with the evidence," 
and so the incident passed off without bloodshed after all. 

Indeed, our Chesterfield was, justly or unjustly, credited 
with a preference for such bloodless encounters. He was 
anxious, whispered malicious gossip, to begin and end his 
duels in court. 

On one occasion this supposed predilection of his was 
broadly hinted at by an irritated junior. With all his 
virtues, the veteran was not by any means famous for 
loyalty to the junior counsel who happened to be engaged 
with him in a case. When anything went wrong it was his 
habit to turn to his junior with a gentle but deprecatory 
smile and shrug, which said as plain as words to court and 
public, " Behold the sad effects of this young man's haste 



loo RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and ignorance." This mode of treatment was by no means 
pleasant, especially when, as was sometimes the case, the 
fault was the leader's own. 

On one occasion the operation had been performed 
repeatedly with anything but a soothing effect on a junior 
of consummate ability, who was afterwards raised to the 
Bench as Lord Morris, and of whom we shall hear again later 
on. His chance of retaliation came at last. The veteran, as 
usual blandly defiant, in reply to an attack from the opposing 
counsel, openly suggested an adjournment to the " Forty 
Acres " for the satisfactory settlement of their dispute. 
The suggestion was not adopted. 

Turning to his junior, with exquisite self-complacency he 
exclaimed, " My dear young friend, that is the way to 
talk to those fellows ! " 

" Yes," was the reply, and a broad Galway brogue and 
a long drawl gave force to the remark, " that is the way to 
talk to them, to talk to them, d'y' observe." 

There is a rather amusing story of how this great legal 
luminary, this man of all others the most cautious and 
astute, became the unsuspecting victim of an innocent 
artifice on the part of the faithful servant by whom he was 
constantly attended. They had made an incursion together 
to a fashionable English watering-place in the height of the 
season. The master, even as an old man, was, not unjustly, 
vain of his personal appearance : of his silver-white hair and 
whiskers, his bright blue eyes and complexion, clear as a 
young girl's. He paraded the pier in the somewhat theatrical 
costume he was wont to affect, a wide expanse of glossy 
shirt-front, a narrow blue ribbon knotted at his throat, 
and a voluminous cloak enveloping his stately form in its 
graceful folds. The servant, by command, attended his 
steps at a respectful distance. While the master was 
delighted at the attention they attracted, the servant was 
desperately bored by the monotony of the performance. 
One evening they were alone together, and the master 
insisted on being told the gossip of the place concerning him. 
The answer was given hesitatingly and with much apparent 
reluctance : 




Sergeant Armstrong 

"Tlie Big Sergeant." 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS loi 

" They say, sir, that you are a harmless looney and that 
I am your keeper." 

Thenceforward the attendance of the servant on the pier 
was dispensed with. 

Just one more anecdote, and we bid the ghost of Frank 
McDonagh a courteous good-bye. 

As he was addressing an elaborate and learned argument 
to a rather dull judge, to whom he was personally obnoxious, 
he was suddenly and rudely interrupted by the Bench 
with : 

" I must confess, Mr. McDonagh, I do not in the slightest 
degree comprehend the force or point of your argument." 

The brief was at once laid quietly on the table, the gold- 
rimmed spectacles were gently adjusted, and the reply came 
low and clear from the smiling lips : 

" I never expected that your lordship coidd, but, in order 
that the point might be made in the Court of Appeal, it 
was necessary that it should be mentioned before your 
lordship." 

The great McDonagh had a rival, if rivalry it could be 
called, when every quality of mind and manner were 
wholly different. Each was master of his weapon. Mr. 
Serjeant Armstrong, the " Big Serjeant " as he was 
affectionately called at the Bar, was big in body, manner 
and mind. He rushed his cases. He went crashing straight 
through all obstacles to his object, like an elephant through 
a cane brake. In cross-examination, especially, he was 
tremendous. This, as every barrister knows, is the most 
important accomplishment of all ; for one barrister who 
can cross-examine you will find ten who can speak. It is 
cross-examination that wins cases. It is cross-examination 
that brings the certainty of truth or falsehood home to the 
mind of the jury. The most eloquent speech can only 
clinch conviction after it is driven home by cross-examina- 
tion. From the days of the chaste Susanna and the elders 
even to our own time it has " let daylight " through the 
most cunning perjurers. 

The Big Serjeant was king of cross-examiners. No He, 
however skilfully concealed, however cunningly disguised. 



102 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

could elude him. He tracked the guilty perjurer with the 
certainty of a sleuth-hound. He did what Hamlet defied 
the king's spies to do — he " played " upon him. He seemed 
"to know all his stops." He "sounded him from his lowest 
note to the top of his compass." He " picked out the heart 
of his mystery." 

He had a method all his own. He stunned a witness by a 
sudden assault, and before he could, as it were, recover 
consciousness he plundered him of the truth, however 
carefully concealed. Over and over again a case was won 
by a single smashing question, breaking through all defence. 
It is not easy to give an example, for it is not possible to 
depict the sudden intellectual spring, the flashing eye, the 
inexorable voice that wrenched the truth from a reluctant 
witness. 

The following is so poor an illustration of his powers that 
I doubt if it is worth repeating. The case turned entirely 
on the evidence of a famous expert in handwriting, whose 
reputation was of long growth. Now, it happened that 
many years ago the Serjeant, when he was a young man, 
happened to be present in court when this same witness was 
examined, and the judge had declared that he would not 
hang a cat on the evidence of such an expert. The Big 
Serjeant rose to cross-examine. For a moment he and the 
witness stood at gaze. Then sharp and sudden comes the 
extraordinary question : 

" Is that cat alive yet ? " 

The witness, dumbfounded, hesitated for an answer. 

The Serjeant pressed him. 

He faltered : "I don't understand the question." 

The Serjeant refreshed his memory. 

Lie made a weak attempt at evasion. 

The Serjeant shook and pushed him straight on. He lost 
nerve, grew dizzy and weak under the pelting storm of 
questions. 

To the jury he had the appearance of striving to shirk 
some shameful disclosure. Then the coup de grace was 
administered, 

" On your oath, sir, did not an eminent judge on one 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 103 

memorable occasion declare he would not hang a cat on 
your evidence ? " 

The reply sounded to the jury like a confession of guilt, and 
the witness slunk from the box utterly discredited. 

In another case the Big Serjeant made dramatic use of 
an important document. 

The Serjeant's client had had his office burnt down, and 
three days later he was sued by a solicitor for a large amount 
of money which, he protested, he had already paid. The 
plaintiff, a most respectable old gentleman, clearly proved 
the debt, and the Serjeant rose to cross-examine him. 

Without a word he handed the witness a sheet of blue 
paper with writing and an obliterated stamp on it. 

The witness just glanced at the document, then silently 
handed it back to the Serjeant. Still without a word he 
took off his spectacles, put them in their case, the case in his 
pocket, picked up his hat and began to move unobtrusively 
out of the witness-box. 

" What's all this, what's all this ? " queried the bewildered 
judge. 

" Only the gentleman's receipt in full for the amount 
claimed," said the Serjeant. 

The plaintiff, half out of the witness-box, turned to the 
judge with the air of a man who has been cruelly 
misled. 

" I take my solemn oath, my lord," he said earnestly, " I 
never would have brought the action, only I was led to 
believe that the receipt was burned." 

The Serjeant's tactics did not always succeed. In the 
famous Galway Election Petition he had to cross-examine 
the venerable and learned Archbishop Dr. McHale, described 
by Dan O'Connell as " the Lion of the fold of Judah." The 
Serjeant had a little weakness for airing his Latin or Greek 
when occasion offered. 

" Your Grace," he began, "is, I understand, the fons et 
origo malorum," making the i in origo and the in malorum 
both short. 

" Your statement, sir," retorted the learned Archbishop, 
" is as false as your quantities." 



104 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

A somewhat similar attack on the distinguished Irish 
patriot A. M. Sulhvan signally failed. 

" Tell me, sir," said the Serjeant, opening the assault 
in a political case, " who is the greatest firebrand in 
Ireland ? " 

" Political or legal, Serjeant ? " was the bland rejoinder, 
and the Big Serjeant did not think it necessary to pursue 
the inquiry farther. 

But the most comical instance of his discomfiture 
occurred, in my own hearing, when he was leading counsel 
for the defence for a railway company in an action brought 
by a cattle jobber. The plaintiff, a man of ponderous bulk 
and deliberate utterance, was being examined in chief. 

" You paid your money ? " said his counsel. 

" I did, your honour." 

" And you got in return a small piece of coloured paste- 
board ? " 

" Yis, your honour." 

" There was printing on it ? " 

" There was, your honour." 

The Serjeant began to grow impatient. He hated technical 
formalities and thought he saw a chance to ridicule the 
plaintiff's case. 

The examination continued. 

" Did you happen to read the print ? "* 

" I did, your honour." 

" Cut it short," the Serjeant broke in impatiently, 
speaking out of his turn. Then to the witness : " You paid 
your money and got your ticket, my man, like anybody 
else ? " 

The man had his spectacles on examining the ticket. He 
quietly removed them and put them in his pocket. Then 
slowly and ponderously he wheeled round his chair amid 
expectant silence and faced the Serjeant at the opposite 
side of the court. 

" See here, me larned friend," he said in grave rebuke. 
" See here, me larned friend, no wan was talkin' to you, and 
there was no occasion for you to put in your gab. When 
your own time comes you can ax what questions you plaze, 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 105 

an' I'll answer them quick enough. But you'll be plazed to 
howld your tongue for the prisent." 

He wheeled his chair round again and faced his own 
counsel. 

" Never heed him, your honour," he said encouragingly ; 
" go on as you were going." 

For once the Serjeant was completely dumbfounded. 
Technically the witness was clearly in the right and he was 
in the wrong. A moment later he joined in the roar of 
laughter that shook the court and which the laughing judge 
had no power to rebuke. 

The Serjeant's speeches were strong, plain and inornate, 
but now and again relieved by a gleam of grim humour. He 
was prosecuting in the Fenian times in a great political case 
which had Dublin in a ferment and filled the courts and hall 
with eager crowds. Isaac Butt, the greatest lawyer and 
advocate of his generation, of whom I shall have something 
to say presently, delivered a speech of thrilling eloquence 
for the defence. 

The Serjeant rose to reply : "I have hstened," he said, 
" with profound interest to the speech of my learned friend, 
which I am sure will give delight to the class for which it 
was intended. Many men are to-day hanging on his words, 
and many may hereafter hang for them." 

A curious and, to my thinking, a striking story of one of 
the Big Serjeant's first successes may fitly close this in- 
adequate notice of one of the giants of the Irish Bar. 

He was engaged to defend a boy of about thirteen accused 
of the murder of a boy of nine years on what appeared 
conclusive circumstantial evidence. The two had been seen 
together early in the day ; later the younger boy was found 
in a bog-hole with his throat cut. When the elder boy was 
arrested there was blood on his hands and clothes, and he 
had in his possession a bloodstained penknife and a ball of 
grey worsted. The mother of the murdered boy swore 
that she believed that the penknife was her son's. Of the 
worsted ball she was quite certain, as she had herself made 
it for her son and given it to him that morning. The accused 
confessed to his own solicitor that he had taken the ball 



io6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and knife from the child, but resolutely denied the murder. 
He had last seen the deceased, he swore, on the roadside, 
crying. The Serjeant (he was not Serjeant then, but a 
briefless junior) thought a defence on those lines too danger- 
ous to be undertaken. 

He endeavoured by dexterous cross-examination, success- 
ful as far as the knife was concerned, to shake the mother's 
identification. But in regard to the ball she was positive, 
and plainly carried with her the conviction of the jury. She 
could not be mistaken, she swore, she had wound the ball 
herself from the thread of an old stocking on a pellet of 
brown paper. Counsel was completely nonplussed, and at 
the same moment, as if to complete his dismay, his solicitor 
whispered, " The woman is right. The boy told me he 
unwound the worsted from the brown paper and threw it 
away, and rewound the worsted on a bit of cork he picked 
up on the road." 

To his amazement he was bade in a fierce whisper, 
" Hold your tongue and our client is safe." 

The future leader of the Bar saw his chance, and took it. 
He vigorously resumed his cross-examination concerning 
the ball. Every question seemed to make certainty more 
certain, to drive the nails, as it were, into the gallows from 
which his client was to swing. But every question was 
artfully framed to rivet attention on the bit of brown paper. 
Over and over again the witness was brought back to that 
point, and never wavered in her evidence. At last the 
crafty counsel thought the situation ripe for his final effort. 

" My lord," he said gravely, " there is a crucial test on 
which I am willing to stake the life of my client. The woman 
swears that the ball she gave her son was wound on a pellet 
of brown paper. I ask, my lord, that the ball found on the 
prisoner shall be unwound in court." 

There was, of course, no refusing the request. The ball 
was produced, and at the counsel's request handed up to 
the jury box, with the loosened end of the thread hang'ng 
down into the court. Counsel began rapidly to wind it on a 
spill of paper torn from his brief, and the ball whirled and 
danced in the palm of the foreman, growing small by degrees 



ECHOES OF THE FOUR COURTS 107 

and beautifully less. One can fancy the intensity of the 
excitement in court. When at last a fragment of cork was 
held up between the finger and thumb of the foreman the 
verdict of " Not Guilty " was secured, and the reputation of 
the defending counsel established. 



CHAPTER XI 
BAR AND BENCH 

A white-headed junior — A " play " or a farce — One for the judge — A vision 
of glory — Isaac Butt — His acknowledged supremacy — " Have a half 
one ! " — -Mistaken for a cardinal — Baron Dowse — " A stake in the 
country " — To " ride a Greek goat." 

POOR Eraser died an old man, but he was a " junior " to 
the last ; for his brain was fashioned rather in the 
mould of Yorick than Polonius. 

His flashes of merriment were wont to set the court in a 
roar ; but unhappily for his success at the Bar it was never 
quite certain to which side the laughter would turn. His 
was, in truth, an unruly tongue and subject to no restraint. 
He ridiculed his own side or his opponents, or both, with the 
most charming impartiality, and as often as not he laughed 
his client out of court. So it came to pass that " old 
Eraser," when I first knew him, I won't say how many 
years ago, was a white-haired junior with the gay spirits of 
a boy. 

On what might be called ornamental occasions he was 
inimitable. Even at serious functions a speech from him 
was regarded as essential as the sparkling of the champagne 
on the dinner-table. Now and again a single word, in his 
own quaint, dry style, set laughter loose. He would con- 
gratulate some ponderous speaker on " his exhaustive — 
(and exhausting) — oration," or some blunderer on " the 
charming (if unconscious) humour that lent gaiety to the 
proceedings." 

On one occasion he appeared in court to set aside a plea. 
His opponent, who spoke with the broadest brogue, waxed 
eloquent on the subject of the proposed plea, 

"It is a good play," he earnestly assured the court, 

io8 



BAR AND BENCH 109 

" an' a regular play ; a play founded on fact and necessary 
for the proper trial of the action." 

Then Eraser's turn came. 

" What have you to say to all this ? " queried the judge. 

" But one sentence, my lord. ' The play,' as my learned 
friend is pleased to call it, is a mere farce." 

He was quite oblivious of the golden rule (the guinea 
golden rule) that the function of the counsel, especially of a 
junior counsel, is to laugh with the judge, not at him. The 
Bench did not always escape his frolicsome raillery. 

A somewhat irritable judge cut him short in the middle 
of a law argument, thickly interwoven with flowers of 
fancy, by the impatient exclamation : 

" I have done my best, Mr. Eraser, but I fail to understand 
a single word of your notice of motion." 

" Not a single word, my lord ? That is really most 
lamentable. Will you please permit me, to the extent of 
my limited ability, to explain it to your lordship ? " 

He read the notice over with laborious exactitude. 

" Sir,— Take notice that on the 20th day of May, or on the 
first opportunity afterwards, counsel on behalf of the 
plainti:ff in this action will apply to this honourable court 
for an order that " etc. 

" Now, my lord, to proceed with my explanation : ' Sir ' 
— that, my lord, is the mode of monosyllabic address used 
by the solicitor of the plaintiff to the solicitor for the other 
side. It is curt, my lord, as the form provides, and indicates 
that the parties are now at arm's length, but it is not 
necessarily discourteous, nor precluding the possibility of 
friendly private relations between the solicitors. ' Take 
notice ' — ^this, your lordship will observe, is in the nature of 
a warning ; the object is that the solicitor shall be prepared 
for the application, and above all that he shall have an 
opportunity to instruct and fee counsel to resist the motion 
if he considers it possible or advisable, or otherwise, to appear 
and consent to the order. ' On the 20th day of May ' — a 
day now past, my lord, and therefore unavailable for the 
making of this motion — * or the first opportunity afterwards ' 
— that, my lord, is the present occasion — ' counsel on behalf 



no RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

of the plaintiff ' — that is the humble individual who appears 
before your lordship — ' will apply to this honourable 
court ' — that is the learned and courteous judge whom I 
have the honour to address — ' for an order ' — that, my 
lord " 

But the judge could not refrain any longer : 

" Go on with your motion," he said, joining in the general 
laughter, " I have learned my lesson." 

He loved to startle the court out of its decorum by some 
amazingly incongruous retort — burlesque disguised in the 
profoundest gravity. One day he had been engaged in 
what, for anyone else, would have been a dry law argument ; 
but for him it was a series of incongruous and amusing 
quibbles. He had a contempt for authority. He spun his 
arguments from his own whimsical brain, turned the cases 
topsy-turvy, and utterly bewildered the judge. 

Human patience, or at least judicial patience, could stand 
it no longer. 

" Will you kindly tell me," the judge broke out, " if you 
have any authority for your Contention ? " 

Counsel was at once startled into directness. 

" Yes, my lord, the point has been expressly decided by 
your lordship's court." 

" Decided by this court ? Why did you not mention that 
before ? Was the court constituted then as now ? " 

Old Eraser laid his brief on the table, adjusted his 
spectacles, and looking the bewildered judge solemnly in 
the face he addressed him in tones of supernatural gravity : 

" No, my lord. Since the not distant day when the 
momentous decision was pronounced, two of your lordship's 
venerable and venerated predecessors on that seat of 
justice have departed from this scene of terrestrial sorrow 
to regions of heavenly glory. There, seated on thrones of 
gold, and clad in robes of spotless white, they sing ever- 
lasting hallelujahs in a never-ending chorus, which blissful 
society, I trust, it will be long before your lordship is called 
upon to join." 

The man of whom I now come to write was the greatest 
man the Irish Bar has known since the days oi O'Comiell, 



BAR AND BENCH iii 

He stood head and shoulders over the giants of his own 
generation. I have hesitated whether I should introduce at 
all into these rambling reminiscences this great figure in 
whose strange career the pathos overpowers the humour. 
But in any account of the men whom I have seen and 
heard, the greatest Irish lawyer, orator and statesman of 
his day must hold a place. 

Of Isaac Butt's supremacy there was never any dispute ; 
in the most emulous of all professions he had no rival. 

I was present at the Parnell Commission when Sir Charles 
Russell dropped a paper which the then Sir Henry James 
picked up and handed to him. 

" Thanks ! Where did you find it ? " asked Sir Charles. 

" Where we all are. Sir Charles — at your feet," was the 
courtly reply. 

The whole Irish Bar, and I may add the whole Irish Bench 
as well, were at B utt's feet. He was the one man to whom 
all, however they differed on other things, conceded the 
supreme praise of genius. Nor was it in this department or 
that, but in all that he excelled. In a law argument he 
would convince or confound the judges ; in a speech he 
would capture the most prejudiced jury. In cross-examina- 
tion he would coax or compel (generally coax) the truth 
from the most adroit and the most reluctant witness. 

His career at the Bar and in Parliament was the most 
brilliant success or the most absolute failure, according to 
the point of view from which it is regarded. He leaped at 
once into position and reputation. In six years he passed 
from the outer to the inner Bar. As quite a young man he 
was selected as the Conservative champion in a discussion on 
Repeal with O'Connell, and even " the Liberator " found 
in him a foeman worthy of his steel. 

It was not a little curious that he himself, as O'Connell 
then prophesied, should subsequently become the founder 
and the leader of the movement for Home Rule ; the pro- 
pounder of a new Irish policy ; the chief of a new Irish 
party. 

All I have written of the greatest of Irish advocates and 
politicians sounds remarkably like success, yet ninety-nine 



112 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

men out of a hundred would pronounce his career an absolute 
failure. A great barrister, he never attained to the Bench ; 
a great Parliamentarian, he never attained power. Even 
his unofficial leadership of the Home Rule party was wrested 
from him before he died. To the strength of a giant he 
joined the amiable weaknesses of a child. He was Irish 
all over, intensely Irish alike in his qualities and his defects. 
If one could imagine the most genial, thoughtless, reckless of 
Charles Lever's heroes, gifted with eloquence, statesman- 
ship and genius, one could realize the strange combination 
of his character. In the practical matters of everyday life 
he was a baby. He earned money ; he could not help 
earning it, for solicitors, wise in their generation, forced 
their briefs and fees on him. But he could not hold it. It 
slipped from his fingers like a full handful of canary seed 
in a hundred unnoticed little trickles. I have known him 
to borrow half a sovereign from a friend and hand it straight 
over to a cabman for a sixpenny drive. 

In appearance and manner also there was this quaint com- 
bination of the giant and the child. He had a grand head, 
massive and leonine and, when I knew him, thickly thatched 
with hair, silver-white. But he had withal the fresh 
complexion, the beaming blue eyes and the frank smile of 
a boy. 

It was his habit in court to argue his cases twirling the 
open blade of his penknife between his finger and thumb. 
In his address to the jury he had but one gesture, a vigorous 
sledge-hammer motion, by which he seemed, as it were, 
to drive his arguments home. 

In social life his manner had the charm of perfect sim- 
plicity. Whatever he talked about, or with whomever he 
talked, he was always bright, eager and absolutely free 
from self -consciousness. 

He has been, not inaptly, described as the Irish Gladstone. 
If one may touch for half a second on politics, it is surely not 
without significance that the most gifted Irishman and 
Englishman of their generation were absolutely in accord 
on the policy that was best for the two countries. 

I had frequently reported Butt when on the Press. The 



BAR AND BENCH 113 

occasion that dwells most clearly in my recollection was a 
great open-air Home Rule demonstration. The weather 
was awful. The rain came down in a perpetual, unceasing 
splash, like water from a hose, and Butt, an old man even 
then, stood — his white head bare — under the deluge and 
spoke for an hour to the patient crowd. 

The reporters, seated round him in a waggonette, had a 
terrible time of it. Our notebooks were reduced to pulp, 
and any attempt at note-taking was impossible, the pencil 
point went clean through to the cover. A good memory 
alone enabled me to get a reasonable summary of the speech 
into the paper. It was good enough, anyway, to please the 
orator, one of the kindliest and most easily contented of 
men. Some days afterwards I had the luck to sit beside 
him at a dinner in a small country town. He said some 
kind words — he was always saying kind words — about the 
report, and I ventured to ask him how he escaped with his 
life from the drenching he received. 

" I had two tumblers full of hot whiskey punch at my 
dinner, and two more after it," he said, " and I awoke next 
morning as well and hearty as ever I felt in my life." 

Later on, at the close of his career, I came to know him 
at the Bar. He had a fascinating way of treating the 
merest junior as an equal, and many an amusing story I 
had from those kindly lips, of which the following serves as 
a sample. Our talk turned on the modern custom of dram- 
drinking, in contrast with the good old times when every 
man took his couple of bottles after dinner and nothing 
before it. 

" I was engaged," said Butt, " in a case of great impor- 
tance and intricacy in Belfast. To keep my brain in working 
trim I got up early and set out for a walk through the city 
in the cool grey of the morning. I had not gone far when 
I met a linen manufacturer in a large way of business, whom 
I had always regarded as one of the most staid and respect- 
able of men. 

" ' Good morning,' he said, * it is not often we see you in 
Belfast, Mr, Butt. Out for your constitutional ? So am I ; 
let us have it together.' 



114 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" * All right,' said I, thinking he meant a walk, but he 
walked me straight across the street, through the open door 
of a bar of a public-house, called for two half-glasses of 
whiskey, and tossed his own allowance down his throat by 
way of good example, which courtesy compelled me to 
follow. 

" I escaped from him as quickly as I could, but was in turn 
waylaid by an eminent contractor and shipbuilder and 
subjected to the same hospitality. 

" My next encounter was with a solicitor, and, of course, 
I could not resist his bland invitation to ' a half one.' A 
doctor button-holed me next. I was not frightened of him 
at first. I relied for protection on medical science, but I 
quickly discovered my mistake. 

" ' There is a general prejudice,' he broke out irrelevantly, 
for I was talking about the weather, ' there is a general 
prejudice shared, I regret to say, by many members of my 
own profession, against, alcoholic stimulant in the early 
morning. It is a complete mistake, my dear sir ; gentle 
alcoholic stimulant improves the appetite, promotes digestion 
and, judiciously renewed, fortifies the constitution against 
the fatigues of the day. Come and have a half one ! ' 
So we had it. 

" When he left me I began to reflect. The thing was 
getting serious. I had now had five half ones, and let me 
tell you, in spite of arithmetic, two half ones are more than 
one whole one. If this went on I would be drunk before 
breakfast in the streets of Belfast. I had just come to the 
desperate conclusion to stoop my head and run, looking 
neither right nor left, straight back to my hotel, when, 
with one final glance round, I found salvation. 

" Right over the way I saw the then Moderator of the 
Presbyterian Church, a most venerable man with whom I 
had the honour of acquaintance. ' Here's my chance,' I said 
to myself. ' I will get into talk with him. I will lure him 
to walk in the direction of my hotel. Under his convoy no 
one will dare to be guilty of the profanity of asking me " to 
come and have a half one." ' 

" The plot prospered. He expressed himself pleased to 



BAR AND BENCH 115 

meet me, and presently in a profound theological discussion 
we began to walk sedately together in the direction of my 
hotel. 

" Presently he broke off a long Scriptural quotation with 
a shiver and a muttered exclamation, 'It's a very chill 
morning.' 

" ' Oh, bad luck to you,' I said in my own mind, ' is that 
what you are at too ! ' 

" I guessed what was coming, and it came. 

" * In my position,' he said softly, ' I am bound to be very 
careful to avoid scandal to the weak-kneed brethren, but 
there is a discreet little place round the corner where you 
and I will have a quiet half one.' 

" I turned and fled as swiftly and as steadily as I was 
able, and never trusted myself loose in those streets again. 

" If I met the Archbishop of Westminster or the Pope of 
Rome in the streets of Belfast, the first words I'd expect to 
hear would be, * Come and have a half one ! ' " 

It chanced, when Butt was at his prime, that the Com- 
mander of the Forces in Ireland was a Catholic ; an able 
man, courteous and popular, but a great stickler for 
ceremonial and decorum. 

Now the Commander deemed it his duty at the very 
earliest date to pay his respects to Cardinal Cullen, prince 
of the Catholic Church, then resident in Dublin. Early in 
the afternoon he arrived in Eccles Street, a street of great 
roomy, old-fashioned houses, where the Cardinal resided, 
within a few doors of the popular lawyer and politician. 

He knocked at the door, which was opened by a somewhat 
slatternly maidservant. 

" Is his Eminence at home ? " 

" His Eminence ! I suppose it's the master you mean ? " 

" Yes, the master." 

" Well, he's in, you see, but he's not up yet." 

" Not up yet ? " 

" He was very late last night, or morning it was." 

" Oh, I see ! " 

He had a vision of a venerable old man burning the mid- 
night oil in profound theological studies. 



ii6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

The servant interrupted : " You can wait for him if you 
want to." 

" I won't disturb him ? " 

" Indeed, and you won't. He was coming down presently, 
and he never takes any breakfast worth speaking about 
after a night of it." 

As she spoke she turned the handle of a door and ushered 
the distinguished visitor into a room lined and littered with 
books. The fume of tobacco-smoke and whiskey punch was 
heavy in the air ; the decanters were still on the corner 
table flanked by a big box of choice cigars ; half a dozen 
packs of cards were strewn on the ground. 

" They were playing up to near four in the morning," the 
servant confidentially explained. " I think master lost ; he 
mostly always loses. I'll take this to him directly." 

Exit with card between her finger-tips. 

Almost immediately a burly figure, an old man in red 
dressing-gown and slippers and very little else, came bustling 
into the room. 

" Delighted to see you ! " 

The genial face, the kindly voice, the outstretched hand of 
welcome were wholly irresistible. 

The Commander of the Forces shook hands as in a dream. 
" Sit down, won't you ? " — with a sweep the strong hand 
sent a pile of books sliding from an easy chair on to the 
floor, and the Commander of the Forces sat down. 

Before he had recovered himself he was in the middle of 
a delightful conversation. He was amazed at the breadth 
of view and brilliancy of his eccentric entertainer. Intelli- 
gence conquered decorum, and he gave himself up to the 
fascination of this inimitable talker. All kinds of questions — 
social, military, religious and political — ^were touched upon 
with the skill of a master. It specially surprised the Com- 
mander to hear Home Rule so earnestly advocated by the 
Cardinal, whom he had heard was strongly opposed to it. 

An hour and a second hour went by. The Commander rose 
surprised and confused at the length of his visit. 

" I fear," he began, " I have trespassed intolerably on 
your Eminence." 




Phoio hy Chancellor and Son, DtMin. 

Baron Dowse 



p. Tl6 



BAR AND BENCH 117 

" My what ? " 

" Your Eminence." 

" Eminence be hanged ! " was the startHng rejoinder, 
" What do you mean by that ? " Then the mistake dawned 
on him suddenly, and he shouted and shook with laughter. 
" So you have been talking to the Cardinal all this time ! " he 
gasped out at last. " Should he feel flattered, I wonder, or 
I ? Sit dowil, man, sit down again. You must have your 
bit of lunch with my real self to make up for it. It will be 
breakfast for ' his Eminence,' and we will have our talk out 
on an easier footing." 

The Commander of the Forces was wont to declare he 
never before or afterwards enjoyed a lunch so much. 
The irresistible charm of Butt's manner quite captured 
him. 

Baron Dowse, as I remember him, was one of the wittiest 
of men. He and laughter were sworn brothers, always 
together. At the Bar in the House of Commons and on the 
Bench he bubbled over with humour, and he left a trail of 
bright sayings behind him. For years he was acknow- 
ledged the leading humorist in the House of Commons, 
where he sat as Attorney-General in one of Gladstone's 
administrations . 

Those that knew him well declared that humour was 
born with him, that the law student was as brilliant as the 
Attorney-General and the judge. When the Baron was 
keeping his terms in London as a student, he occasionally, 
like the rest of us, dropped into the " Temple Forum " for 
a drink and a debate. I found this story there thirty years 
afterwards, told to me by a hoary-headed patriarch to the 
accompaniment of two Irish whiskies hot, and brought it 
home with me to Dublin. 

I do not know what was the subject set for the debate on 
that distant night, when the brilliant young law student 
from Ireland intervened, but the subject, whatever it was, 
had come round, as it had a habit of doing in my own day, 
to an animated discussion of the wrongs of Ireland. A 
venerable Englishman delivered a superior-person style of 
speech on the subject, intensely irritating to the quick- 



ii8 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

tempered young Irish student, who rephed when his chance 
came with a broadside of ridicule. 

Stung by the shouts of laughter that followed each shot, 
as report follows the flash, a friend of the first orator 
indignantly rose to what he called " a point of order," and 
demanded that " the young Milesian should be compelled 
to respect the grey hairs of the previous speaker." 

The retort was instantaneous. " I am as willing as any 
man, Mr. Speaker," said young Dowse, " to respect grey 
hairs in their proper place. But I cannot forget that grey 
hairs grow on the head of a donkey as well as on the head of 
a man." 

As an advocate Dowse was irresistible. He was leading 
counsel for the defence in a case in which a wealthy employer 
was sued for damages by an injured employee. After the 
accident, but before the action, the employer had shown 
himself exceedingly generous and considerate. He had 
secured the best surgical assistance for the injured man, and 
liberally provided for the support of his family. 

But when the action was brought he instantly repudiated 
all responsibility for the injuries. 

Counsel for the plaintiff naturally relied on the defendant's 
previous conduct as a tacit confession that he was responsible. 
The counsel for the defence was splendidly indignant at 
the suggestion. 

" People of this kind," he said, " would have brought an 
action for damages against the Good Samaritan in the 
Gospel, and would have argued that the oil and the wine 
and the twopence were conclusive evidence of his legal 
Hability." 

To recapitulate his after-dinner jokes would be to write 
a new jest book, before which Joe Miller would pale his 
ineffectual fires. Unhappily, I have only one or two 
samples to offer. 

There was present in the company at the judge's dinner 
circuit a very corpulent pseudo-patriotic barrister, a man 
of ponderous presence and wondrous breadth of beam. 
He had begun to ventilate some startling theories of his 
own on the Irish Land Question. The land, he thought, 



BAR AND BENCH 119 

should be taken by the State from the present owners, 
landlord or tenant, and divided amongst the professional 
classes as the most intelligent of the community. 

The bluff Baron had listened for some time with good- 
humoured amusement ; at length he burst out : 

" Now I really wonder at you to ventilate such doctrines. 
If it had been a lean, lank, lantern-jawed greyhound of a 
politician I could understand it. But you, a solid, sub- 
stantial man with a pair of gold spectacles and a stake in 
the country ! " 

" I have no stake in the country. Baron," interrupted the 
barrister warmly. 

" Oh, you have," retorted the Baron without a moment's 
hesitation ; " you have a rump steak, at any rate." 

Late in the evening the same barrister, unsubdued by his 
previous disaster, was vapouring about the active part he 
was prepared to take in event of an insurrection. He would 
be found, he said, facing the enemies of his country. 

" Oh, no, you wouldn't," exclaimed the Baron. " You 
have too much sense and too much discretion. You would 
show the enemy the steak you have in the country." 

But it was as a judge I knew him best, and it was as a judge 
that I had most opportunity of appreciating his humour. 
There was at the time, practising in the Four Courts, a 
middle-aged, muddled-headed Queen's Counsel who shall 
be nameless. The tradition in the law library was that 
when he was engaged in an intricate case he took a row of 
Reports at random from a shelf and read them at random in 
the courts. He was the delight of Baron Dowse. 

" That is a very interesting case," the Baron would say, 
" but has nothing whatever to do with the point before the 
court." 

" Quite so, my lord, quite so," the other would reply, 
with undisturbed equanimity ; " but as an interesting case 
I thought your lordship would wish to have it on your 
notes." 

On one occasion I was present in court when this same 
barrister moved to set aside a count in a pleading, a form 
of motion common enough in those days. 



120 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" But on what ground do you move ? " asked the Baron. 

" The count is unintelhgible," growled the advocate. 

"Not to me," objected the Baron ; "it appears perfectly 
plain." 

" My lord," was the reply, " if your lordship bears with 
me patiently for ten minutes I confidently undertake to 
make it as unintelligible to your lordship as it is to myself." 

" No man more competent for the task," cried the 
delighted Baron, and the moon-faced counsel beamed in 
self-satisfied appreciation of the compliment. 

Sometimes, though rarely, the Baron's humour missed 
the mark. In a time of great political excitement he 
happened to be going Judge of Assize on the Connaught 
circuit on which I practised, and in the assize town of 
Castlebar he found himself baffled more than once in attempts 
to secure conviction in cases in which the evidence to him 
appeared to be conclusive. 

The counsel for the defence in those cases — Mr. Charles 
O'Malley, locally known as " the Counsellor " — had a 
special advantage with the jury of his town. He was a 
barrister only during circuit, and a farmer during the rest of 
the year. Living, as he did, in the neighbourhood of the 
assize town, the men whom he met at the fair and market 
as brother farmers he met in the court as jurors. They 
knew the Counsellor to be a straightforward farmer, 
and they trusted him to be an honest advocate. He had 
a formula that never failed : " Gentlemen of the jury, you 
know me and I know you this many a year, and I'm sure 
you will take my word for the innocence of my client." — 
They did. 

The repetition of this performance told on the temper of 
the Baron. In one specially clear case he let himself go. 

" Gentlemen of the jury," he said, " in this case four 
perfectly respectable witnesses, whose evidence has not 
been impeached, and who were admittedly present on the 
occasion, swore they saw the prisoner at the bar commit 
the assault. On the other hand, counsel for the defence, who 
was not there, and who knew nothing about the case until 
he got his brief and fee in this town, tells you his client is 



BAR AND BENCH 121 

innocent. It is for you to say which statement you 
beheve." 

They beheved the Counsellor, of course, and acquitted 
the prisoner without leaving the box. 

" I knew," the Counsellor proudly explained to his 
colleagues in the Bar room, " that when he questioned my 
credit I was sure of my verdict." 

Baron Dowse took his defeat good-humouredly. When 
later on he had occasion to speak of the disturbed and 
dangerous condition of the country, " There appears to me," 
he said, "to be only one place in all Mayo where a man is 
absolutely safe, and that's in the dock in Castlebar." 

The genial Baron was sometimes a little sharp on the 
class of magistrates popularly — or unpopularly — known as 
" the Removables " in the Coercion days in Ireland. On 
one occasion when a Nationahst Member of Parliament, 
the famous Dr. Tanner, offended the Removables, an 
elaborate warrant for his committal for contempt of court, 
ready drawn for the emergency, was instantly produced, 
and he was forthwith bundled off to jail. 

" They came," remarked the Baron, before whom the case 
was heard on appeal, " they came with their ammunition 
ready," 

The prosecuting counsel suggested that the Removables 
drew up the warrant without assistance. 

" You might as well," interjected the Baron, " expect 
them to write a Greek ode." 

Next day the words read in the newspapers " ride a 
Greek goat," and the Baron laughingly declared that the 
reporters had expressed his views more pointedly than 
himself. 



CHAPTER XII 
LAW AND LEVITY 

" Mickey " Morris — His way with a jury — " I yield to no man in my 
ignorance " — Only the waiters — " A little difficulty about that " — 
Judge Murphy — Innocent boys — The story of the Cock and Bull — 
" Where's the ' sportavit ' ? " 

LORD MORRIS, affectionately known as "Mickey," who 
^ was Chief Justice of Ireland and afterwards Law Lord 
of England, was pre-eminently Irish and proud of his race, 
characteristics that are preserved and enhanced in his 
eldest son and successor. Lord Killanin, 

He was an Irishman first and a Unionist a long way after- 
wards. If he could have been convinced that Home Rule 
was the best thing- for Ireland, he would, I am sure, have 
become a Home Ruler instantly, without any special regard 
for the interests of the predominant partner. 

A long residence in England had not engendered in him 
an " electro-plated English accent." While London society 
scrambled for the pleasure of his company he grew daily 
more aggressively Irish. 

In a former chapter I told of his ready and audacious 
retort as a junior counsel on his " silken senior." The 
same readiness, ability and audacity stood the same junior 
counsel in good stead in his subsequent career. From a 
leading position at the Bar he leaped clean over the heads of 
his seniors on to the judicial Bench, and he even contrived 
to move up on the Bench itself after he got there. 

As a jury judge he was unrivalled. He could bring 
jurors to endorse any view of a case he had himself 
adopted. On these occasions there was a kind of electric 
sympathy between the Bench and the jury box, for the 
judge was a kind of glorified juror himself. In his sound 
common sense, his unaffected plainness of language, his 
broad brogue and his rough and racy humour was to be 




Photo by Lafayette Ltd., Dublin. 



Lord Morris 

One time Chief Justice of Common Pleas, Ireland. 



LAW AND LEVITY 123 

found the secret of his success. Let me cite, by way of 
illustration, a passage from one of his charges in a case in 
which I appeared for the unfortunate accused. 

A prisoner was being tried by him in the West of Ireland 
for assault. Two independent witnesses had seen the 
assault committed and identified the prisoner. The prose- 
cutor's appearance in the box with his head bandaged and 
his face disfigured gave demonstrative evidence of the 
injury he had received. Having absolutely no defence, I 
cross-examined the witness in what may be termed the 
" common form " in these cases, as to the number of public- 
houses he had visited, and the amount of drink he had 
imbibed previous to the beating. 

Then the judge came to the charge. 

" Gentlemen of the jury," he said in his own rich Doric 
brogue, " there are two courses, d' y' observe, adopted by 
counsel in defence of a prisoner. The first is when he has any 
case at all, when he has any evidence at all in favour of his 
client, he endeavours to convince the jury, d' y' observe, 
to convince the jury ; but when he has no case at all, when 
the evidence is all the one way, and the guilt of his client is 
as plain, d' y' see, as the nose on his face, and no one 
except a fool or a juror could be expected to doubt it, 
counsel endeavours to obfusticate the jury. In this case the 
counsel does not venture to suggest that the prosecutor 
beat his own head for the fun of the thing. But it is 
urged as a defence that at the time he was beaten the 
prosecutor was drunk. Now, gentlemen, the facts of the 
case are for you, but you are to take the law from me, and 
it is my duty to tell you as a matter of law, d' y' observe, 
as a matter of dry law, that even if a man does go home 
drunk, his drunkenness does not constitute such an equity 
against him as would entitle anyone who meets him on his 
way home to beat him on the head with a blackthorn." 

In a sheep-stealing case tried before him the offence was 
plainly proved, but a number of witnesses were called to 
depose to the good character of the accused. He summed 
up in a single sentence : 

" In this case, gentlemen, the result of the evidence 



124 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

appears to be that the sheep were stolen by a man of most 
excellent character," 

" My lord," said counsel in an intricate sanitary case, " I 
assume that your lordship is fully acquainted with the 
statutes and the authorities?" 

" Assume nothing of the kind, if you please," was the 
startling reply ; "I yield to no man in my ignorance of 
sanitary law." 

His illustration of circumstantial evidence is worth 
recalling. " Gentlemen of the jury," he said, " I'm afraid 
you may be puzzled by the long word ' circumstantial ' 
which counsel has used so often, so I'll try to explain to you 
what it means. If, for example, you saw a man going into 
a public-house and five minutes later you saw him coming 
out again wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, that 
would be circumstantial evidence that he was after having 
a drink." 

Common sense dominated the Court of Common Pleas, 
where for many years he presided. Chief Baron Pallas, 
President of the Exchequer Division, was, and is, a profound 
lawyer, a man of most miraculous memory and erudition. 
In his court strict law was conscientiously meted out to the 
litigants. The Queen's Bench was not strong in any special 
department. The joke in the Four Courts ran, a joke with 
a spice of truth in it : "If you have the law of the case, go 
to the Exchequer ; if you have the merits, go to the Common 
Pleas ; if you have neither the law nor the merits, try the 
Queen's Bench." 

On one occasion I raised in the Common Pleas Division 
a highly technical, but unanswerable, point of law as a 
defence to a motion for judgment in an action to recover 
the price of goods sold and delivered. 

" That's a good law point," said the Chief Justice, " a 
good Exchequer point, d' y' observe. But why doesn't 
your client pay the man for the goods ? " 

" Because he never got them, my lord." 

" Now that's a good Common Pleas point, if you can 
prove it," retorted the judge. 

In social life he showed the same unconventional candour. 



LAW AND LEVITY 125 

It was his privilege to take the wife of a Home Rule Viceroy 
into dinner at the head of a very brilliant and representative 
company at the Viceregal Lodge, Phcenix Park. She was 
enthusiastic, as she was inexperienced in Irish politics. 

" Chief Justice," she said, when the company were 
seated, " I suppose we are all Home Rulers here to-night ? " 

" My lady," he answered in his richest brogue, " the only 
Home Rulers present are yourself, his Excellency — and the 
waiters." 

He was a Unionist in politics, as has been said, and was 
prepared in his own humorous fashion to give reasons for 
the faith that was in him. 

" Here we are," I have heard him say, " a very poor 
country in partnership with a very rich country, with our 
hand in the till, and nothing will please us but to get away 
to set up a little shebeen of our own." 

It is probable that he altered his opinion on this point 
later on, for no man was more moved by the discovery, by 
the Financial Relations Commission, that it is the very rich 
country that has had its hand in the very poor country's till, 
to the tune of three millions, or thereabouts, a year, and no 
man argued the poor country's case for restitution with 
more ability. 

One thing is certain, that his Unionism never took the 
form of abasement before the superior virtue or intelligence 
of the predominant partner. 

The Irish question was the main topic of conversation at 
a dinner-party at which he was a guest. One noble 
member of a Unionist Cabinet undertook to instruct the 
company on the question. He found the solution of the 
problem in the sacred mission of the superior and en- 
lightened race to enlighten and control poor, ignorant 
Irish who were incapable of self-government. The Chief 
Justice, because he had lived his life in Ireland and knew 
the country and the people as he knew his alphabet, was, 
of course, quietly ignored. 

At length it occurred to the omniscient nobleman who 
dominated the discussion, that it would be only polite to 
make at least a pretence of desiring his opinion. He ques- 



126 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

tioned him with good-humoured condescension, as a grown- 
up man might put a question to a clever Uttle boy, to flatter 
the httle fellow, without attaching the least importance to 
his answering. 

" Well, Chief Justice," he said, " what do you think of the 
Irish difficulty ? " 

The reply came like a thunder-clap on the self-complacent 
company. 

" It's a case, do you see, my lord, of a very stupid people 
trying to govern a very clever people against their will, and 
there will be always a little difficulty about that." 

" That's not very complimentary. Chief Justice," re- 
torted the outraged nobleman. 

" No, but it's true, my lord, d' y' observe, and that's 
better than complimentary." 

By common consent the Irish question was dropped for 
the rest of the evening. 

As a general rule a judge is spoiled by his promotion. The 
elevation makes him dizzy. Even the mildest-mannered 
man is inclined to be a bit peremptory with former colleagues. 
His tongue tangs authority and his temper is apt to be 
snappy. There was one striking example in my time, when 
Mr. James Murphy, Q.c, one of the most pugnacious of 
counsel, was transformed into the most genial of judges. 
Those who knew him at the Bar felt it was the same man, 
strong, clear, resolute, only he had changed his manner from 
steel to silk. He had been an unequalled prosecutor ; on 
the Bench the prisoner found him the worst or the best of 
judges. If the prisoner tried by him was innocent, there 
was no fear ; if he was guilty, there was no hope. He had 
a knack of going straight to the truth of a case and carrying 
the jury after him. The most skilful advocacy could not 
stop him. Even " the Counsellor," of whom I have already 
written, was hopeless when this particular judge was on the 
war-path. Here is an illustration : — 

The indictment was for what is known as a " Whiteboy 
offence," the wrecking of a dwelling-house, and there were 
about a dozen men in the dock charged with the crime. 

The Counsellor put up a witness for the defence who 




Photo by Chancellor and Son, Diihlin. 

Mr. Justice James Murphy 



p. 126 



LAW AND LEVITY 127 

was shrewdly suspected of being himself one of the party, 
and who purported to prove that the window-breaking had 
been done by a party of thoughtless, innocent boys on their 
way home from school. The witness was, naturally, 
nervous, but he pulled through tolerably well in his direct 
evidence under the skilful manipulation of the Counsellor. 
Before the Crown Prosecutor could open his mouth to cross- 
examine, the judge interposed. 

" Turn round," he said in his deep voice. 

The witness turned and nervously faced his comrades in 
the dock. 

" Now, tell me," the judge went on in a quiet, matter-of- 
fact tone, as if asking a commonplace question, " which of 
those * boys ' were with you wrecking the man's house ? " 

Before the witness could stop himself, he had identified 
half a dozen of the prisoners. Five minutes later the 
Counsellor was on his legs telling the jury that they " knew 
him and he knew them and that there was not a shadow 
of evidence against his respectable clients." 

The judge and the Counsellor encountered again at the 
same Assizes. The prisoner, this time, was charged with the 
attempted night robbery of a " lone, widdy woman." The 
amazon had proved, however, perfectly competent to take 
care of herself and her property. Armed with a two- 
pronged pitchfork she had put the marauder to flight, and 
had managed, moreover, to get home one shrewd prod as he 
scuttled through the door. The police found the prisoner 
next morning under suspicious circumstances, with two 
ignominious scars on his rear still raw and bleeding. 

This seemed a strong case, but it did not daunt the 
Counsellor. He had witnesses to prove that his client had 
been tossed by a sharp-horned bull, who had breached him 
in exactly the same way as the pitchfork had breached the 
mysterious marauder. This evidence was corroborated by 
an elaborate " alibi," a mode of defence in which the Irish 
peasant has the same absolute confidence as Mr. Weller. 

The attempted robbery took place at two o'clock in the 
morning. One of the witnesses for the defence boldly swore 
that he had a cock that crowed punctually at that hour, and 



128 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

having been awakened by the crowing he looked in casually 
at the prisoner and found him peaceably in bed at the pre- 
cise time that the attempted robbery was in progress five 
miles away. 

The Counsellor having made a vigorous appeal to the 
jury to acquit his innocent client without turning in their 
box, the judge came to the charge. He gravely discussed 
the " co-incidental bull " and the " time-keeping cock." 
" Putting this and that together, gentlemen," he concluded, 
" you have the story of the cock and bull." 

On one occasion, however, even before Judge Murphy, a 
prisoner got off who was unmistakably and even confessedly 
guilty, as far as deliberate intent can constitute an offence. I 
remember well the judge telling the story at a circuit dinner. 

To understand the case it is necessary that the lay reader 
should know that, by one of the curious provisos of the 
British law, to constitute a larceny it is necessary that 
the article stolen should be wholly removed by the thief. 
To use the technical phrase, the " aportavit " must be 
" laid and proved." 

There had been a good deal of pocket-picking in a certain 
town in the South of Ireland. It was almost impossible to 
walk of an evening on the " Mall," which was the fashionable 
promenade, and come home with un violated pocket. 
For a long time the adroit thief defied detection. 

Now it so happened that a pompous, middle-aged gentle- 
man in the town, whose rubicund face and social habits had 
earned for him the sobriquet of " Bacchus," resolved to 
play the role of amateur detective. He pinned a large silk 
handkerchief by one end into his pocket, and with the other 
end temptingly protruding walked leisurely down the Mall. 
In a few moments a tiny thrill on the handkerchief apprised 
him of a bite, and turning sharply round he collared a young 
ragamuffin in the act. 

The young vagabond, when his trial came on, defended 
himself, and proved as nimble and dexterous with his tongue 
as with his fingers. 

The case v/as proved home against him, yet he opened his 
cross-examination in the gayest fashion. 



LAW AND LEVITY 129 

" See here to me now, Bacchus," he began with easy 
famiharity ; " you're mighty clever ? " 

The pompous prosecutor objected, and the judge inter- 
posed. 

" It was only a joke, me lord," explained the young 
rascal in the dock ; " of course I didn't mean that Bacchus 
had brains." 

" See here to me, Bacchus," he began again, and this time 
the prosecutor did not venture to resent the familiarity ; 
" you swear you pinned the handkerchief to the bottom 
of your pocket ? " 

" So I did." 

" Hard and fast ? " 

" Fast enough." 

" And I couldn't take it out ? " 

" How could you ? " 

" And I didn't ? " 

" You did not because you could not, but you did your 
best." 

" Just so ! Now, me lord, will your lordship kindly 
direct an acquittal ? " 

" You confounded young scamp ! " burst out the chief 
witness for the prosecution. 

" Steady, Bacchus, steady, I was not speaking to you. 
You don't understand the law, me man. I was asking his 
lordship for a direction of not guilty." 

" But why ? " queried the judge, amazed, yet amused at 
his audacity. 

" Where's the ' sportavit,' me lord ? " was the triumphant 
rejoinder. 

He had hit the legal blot in the prosecution, and his 
acquittal followed in due course. 

Judge Murphy once delivered a very effective charge to a 
jury in an action for breach of promise of marriage. The 
defendant was not examined, and the judge naturally 
commented strongly on this fact in his charge. He was 
interrupted by the protest of the defendant. 

" You have no right to say that, my lord ; sure, I wanted 
to be examined and my counsellor wouldn't let me." 



130 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" All right, my man," said the judge, " come up on the 
table and be sworn. Why didn't you marry the girl ? " 

" Because she hadn't the fortune I wanted, my lord." 

" How much was that ? " 

" Five hundred pounds, no less." 

" Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, concluding his 
charge, " you will find for the defendant five hundred pounds 
damages. Now, sir " (to the defendant), " she has the 
fortune you want." 



CHAPTER XIII 
LAUGHTER IN COURT 

Lord Justice Barry — Mislaid his fee — Asses and assets — Lord Justice 
Whiteside — A neat retort — Judge Webb — " Johnny, I hardly knew 
you !" — "Fictions founded on fact" — A startling comparison— Lord 
Chancellor Sullivan — The Yelverton case — The horns of a dilemma — 
An Irish " Miss Flite " — " I know it all by heart " — " I'm the testator ! " 
— Lord Justice Holmes and Lord Atkinson — A bit mixed. 

ERD JUSTICE BARRY was one of the ablest, kindliest 
and laziest of men. When he was appointed a Lord 
Justice of Appeal someone asked him did he not find the 
work hard. " The brain-work is not hard," was the answer, 
" but the cushions are." He did not put it exactly in that 
way. 

This anecdote, however, has to do with the time when he 
was Attorney-General and leader of the Bar. For the 
uninitiated, it is necessary to explain in parenthesis the way 
Bar fees are usually paid and receipted. The cheque is 
caught under the pink tape with which the brief is tied ; 
the receipt consists of the counsel's initials under the 
figure marked on the brief. 

In this case the solicitor — a man at the very top of his 
profession — came himself with a big brief and a big fee 
marked on it. He was very anxious about the action. 

" I want you to attend specially for the plaintiff in this 
case," he said, " and I have marked fifty guineas on your 
brief. It is touch and go. There is a chance it may be 
settled, but if not settled we must win. Anyhow, it cannot 
be on for a fortnight." 

The solicitor departed, having received most comforting 
assurances of special attention to the case. A week after- 
wards he met his counsel, who advised him that the case 
was eminently one for amicable settlement. 



132 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Acting on this advice he did his level best to secure a 
settlement out of court, but failed. It was nearer to three 
weeks than a fortnight when it was called. Then it came on 
a little unexpectedly by the coUapse of the case immediately 
before it in the list. 

Everything was ready, or appeared to be ready, for the 
hearing, when, as often happens, the parties and their 
solicitors got together at the last moment and arrived at 
an amicable settlement. 

The leading counsel for the plaintiff seemed much pleased 
at this result when he handed his brief to the solicitor with 
a word of congratulation. 

The solicitor looked at the back of the brief. 

" You have not receipted the fee," he said. 

" My dear fellow," said the counsel a little awkwardly, 
" I will be glad to do anything to oblige you, but my 
invariable rule is not to receipt the brief until the fee is 
paid." 

" But the fee has been paid nearly a month ago ! " 

With a deprecatory smile : " You will find you are 
mistaken." 

" I cannot be mistaken ; I put it there myself." 

Then the solicitor pulled the slip-knot of red tape and 
opened the brief. There was the cheque inside. 

The explanation dawned on both at once. The counsel 
had never opened the brief. Let it be added that, had he 
been put to it, he would have contrived somehow or other to 
get hold of the facts and delivered an admirable opening 
statement of the case. 

Justice is popularly supposed to be blind, but when, as 
has sometimes happened in Ireland, Justice is deaf as well, 
the result is startling. 

A judge, to whose identity I offer no clue, was engaged in 
hearing, or I should rather say watching, the trial of a 
tedious case, in which the property in dispute was a nimiber 
of asses which one dealer had alleged had been wrongfully 
taken away and detained by the other. The case " dragged 
its slow length along " for several days. Voluminous 
evidence had been given by witnesses, eloquent speeches 



LAUGHTER IN COURT 133 

had been made by counsel, elaborate notes taken by the 
judge. It is needless to say that the asses on which the 
dispute turned had been mentioned some thousand times by 
witnesses and counsel during the progress of the case. 

At length the trial drew to a close. Counsel for the plaintiff 
was making his final appeal to the jury. He was suddenly 
interrupted by the judge. 

" I want to know," he said, looking up from his notes 
with a look of owlish wisdom, " I want to know who is the 
testator in this case ? " 

" There is no testator, my lord." 

" Then how can there be an executor ? " 

" There is no executor, my lord," 

" Then who is the administrator ? " 

" There is no administrator." 

" Oh," exclaimed his lordship, " no matter ; I thought I 
heard somebody say something about assets." 

Another amusing story of the same judge, though it is 
an echo of the tennis-court rather than of the Four Courts, 
may not be regarded as out of place. 

He was a particularly skilful racquets player ; in the 
midst of an exciting match, swinging his racquet sharply 
round for a back-hander, he took his opponent a cut on the 
shin-bone, which sent him hopping, dancing and cursing 
round the court like a frightened blue-bottle on a window- 
pane. 

" It's broken, it's broken ! " he yelled at the top of his 
voice. 

His unwitting aggressor meanwhile waited patiently for 
the game to go on. At length the continued yell, " It's 
broken, it's broken ! " came faintly to his ear. 

He looked anxiously at his favourite racquet, leant it on 
the ground and bent it gingerly to either side. 

Then he smiled. 

" No, no," he cried cheerily to his opponent, " it's all 
right, it's all right ; it's not broken, it's not even 
strained ! " 

Lord Chief Justice Whiteside, possibly the most eloquent 
advocate the Irish Bar has ever known, retired from the 



134 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Bench before I was called to the Bar. My very earliest 
recollection of a law court was his delightful reply to a 
witness, who coming upon the table declared : 

" I object to give evidence in this case unless I am paid." 

" How, sir," said the Chief Justice, " have they not paid 
your expenses ? " 

" Yes, my lord, they have," the witness replied, " but I 
think they have a right to pay me for my trouble." 

" Sir," replied the Chief Justice gravely, " your sup- 
position is correct. They have undoubtedly the right you 
mention, but apparently they do not choose to avail them- 
selves of their right." 

There was a famous libel action some little time after 
I was called, which caused unlimited amusement to the 
profession and the public. The plaintiff, a corporation 
official, was a particularly plump personage, the defendant 
a distinguished artist. The alleged libel consisted of a 
cartoon in which the plaintiff was depicted on horseback 
in the comical uniform appertaining to his office as City 
Marshal, and by way of legend a line from a comic song 
popular at the time, " Faix, Johnny, I hardly knew you ! " 
The plaintiff's special grievance may be best gathered from 
the following paragraph from the statement of claim : — 

" The said defendant in said picture or cartoon falsely 
and maliciously represented the said plaintiff with the lower 
and hind portion of his body of enormous, ridiculous and 
exaggerated dimensions, and partially uncovered by his 
tunic." 

The late Judge Webb, who was counsel for the defence, 
resolved to laugh the case out of court, and succeeded. 
His speech was full of audacious humour, but it was his 
peroration that settled the verdict. 

" Gentlemen of the jury," he said, " ladies of fashion are 
connoisseurs in beauty. They have so realized the charms 
of those graceful and swelling curves of which the plaintiff 
complains, that they have called Art to Nature's aid in 
contriving them. These elegant devices of theirs have been 
aptly described as ' fictions founded on fact.' But the 
plaintiff in this case, gentlemen of the jury, more sensitive 




Photo by Lafayette Ltd., Dublin. 

The Late County Court Judge Webb 



LAUGHTER IN COURT 135 

than the ladies, unreasonably objects to have any fiction 
founded on his fact." 

The same Dr. Webb was on one occasion counsel for 
Peter Mulligan, who made an application before the Re- 
corder of Dublin for a license for a public-house. The 
applicant was only twenty-five years of age, and the police 
objected on account of his youth. 

" He is very young for so responsible a position," quoth 
the Recorder. 

Dr. Webb instantly rose to the occasion : 

" My lord," he said, " Alexander the Great at twenty-two 
years of age had — had crushed the lUyrians and razed the 
city of Thebes to the ground, had crossed the Hellespont at 
the head of his army, had conquered Darius with a force 
of a million in the defiles of Issus and brought the great 
Persian Empire under his sway. At twenty-three Rene 
Descartes evolved a new system of philosophy. At twenty- 
four Pitt was Prime Minister of the British Empire, on 
whose dominions the sun never sets. At twenty-four 
Napoleon overthrew the enemies of the Republic with a 
whiff of grape-shot in the streets of Paris, and is it now to 
be judicially decided that at twenty-five my client, Peter 
Mulligan, is too young to manage a public-house in Capel 
Street ? " 

The license was hurriedly granted. 

It was said that the late Lord Chancellor Sullivan was for 
many years the real governor of Ireland, so faithfully did a 
succession of Lord-Lieutenants and Chief Secretaries follow 
his advice. 

By sheer merit he climbed through every gradation to 
the supreme position of head of the Irish Judiciary. I did 
not know him at all as an advocate, but traditions of his 
prowess as a cross-examiner were still alive in the Four 
Courts when I was called to the Bar. 

The famous Yelverton case turned on a question of 
marriage or seduction. 

" Major Yelverton," asked Sullivan, opening his cross- 
examination of the defendant, " did you ever love Theresa 
Longworth ? " 



136 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

The Major hesitatingly confessed that he did. The next 
question impaled him on the horns of a dilemma. 

" Honourably or dishonourably ? " 

As Master of the Rolls, and afterwards as Lord Chancellor, 
Sullivan was the most considerate of men. Nervous young 
juniors were sure in his court of an encouraging word and a 
patient hearing. But he thought fit to disguise, or attempt 
to disguise, his general kindliness behind the strict manner 
and the strong words of the martinet. 

A somewhat loose practice had crept into the Rolls 
Court — where he for a long time presided — regarding the pay- 
ment of funds out of court. He " resolved to reform it 
altogether." The moment payment of money was so much 
as hinted at in a law argument, counsel was instantly 
pulled up sharply by the curt command from the Bench : 

" Produce the Accountant-General's certificate ! " 

It came to pass that " produce the Accountant-General's 
certificate " grew to be a byword with the Bar. I remember 
I was out on a boating excursion with some colleagues. The 
weather grew chilly. " Produce the Accountant-General's 
certificate," said one of the party to another. Instantly 
a huge, well-filled wicker flask made its appearance. It was 
called the Accountant-General's certificate, he explained, 
because it was necessary to produce it on every emergency. 

There was in those days an Irish " Miss Elite," as strange 
and as sad as the little lady of Dickens' creation. She, too, 
had been driven crazy by interminable litigation, and 
some curious fascination compelled her to haunt the courts, 
as ghosts are reputed to haunt the scene of their misfortune. 
There she would sit for the length of a day in the back 
benches behind the counsel, with sad attentive ear listening 
to the law arguments. 

It was noticed, however, that a gleam of pleasure shone on 
her pale face whenever there was a breeze in court and the 
little judge let out at some delinquent. It was noticed, too, 
that occasionally she muttered to herself as if engaged in 
fervent prayer. A junior barrister, prompted by curiosity, 
got close enough to her seat to catch the words of her 
muttered litany : 



LAUGHTER IN COURT 137 

" O Lord God," it ran, " mercifully grant that the 
Accountant-General's certificate cannot be produced," 

The poor old thing had not the least idea what the 
Accountant-General's certificate was, or what it was wanted 
for. But she knew if it was not produced there was bound 
to be a row in court, and that was quite enough for her. 

His lordship was a great stickler for precise pleading. 
From having been the most eloquent of Nisi Prius advocates, 
he had, by almost miraculous transformation, become one 
of the most accomplished of Equity Judges. 

In a case before him the merits were all with the plaintiff, 
but the plaintiff's pleadings were in a hopeless muddle. 
Over and over again the judge harped sharply on the 
irregularities. The junior counsel for the plaintiff, afterwards 
Judge Monroe, a brilliant Nisi Prius advocate, one of the 
most genial and popular of men, and a great favourite with 
this particular judge, evaded technicalities and stuck to the 
merits of the case. Though little used to the Equity side 
of the court, his clear common sense carried him through, 
and he made an excellent argument. 

" Quite so, quite so," the judge assented sharply. " But 
will you kindly tell me how comes it that there is not one 
word of the case you are now making in your statement of 
claim ? " 

" I'll tell your lordship. It is very simple. I drafted 
the statement of claim, my lord, and, as your lordship is 
aware, I am a d — d bad Equity pleader." 

There were no more complaints about the statement of 
claim to the end of the case. 

The following retort was still more audacious. Woe 
betide the solicitor that came into this court unprepared ! 
The judge instantly launched out into a torrent of pictur- 
esque invective and threats of the things he would do the 
" next time." But the judicial bark had no bite attached. 
It was always the " next time." The offender was merely 
required, for form's sake, to look penitent. Presently the 
judge cooled down and the case quietly proceeded. 

The instance of which I have to tell was, however, a 
particularly bad offence. The counsel, Mr. Jackson, Q.C., a 



138 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

genial and easy-going gentleman — had been handed his 
brief at the door of the court and none of the original 
documents were forthcoming. Instantly the judge pro- 
ceeded to paint the court red in his customary fashion. 
The counsel philosophically availed himself of the welcome 
respite to glance through the pages of his brief. 

The judge in full torrent of his fiery eloquence, happened 
to glance down and saw him thus placidly employed. 
Suddenly interrupting himself, he exclaimed : 

" I declare, Mr. Jackson, you have not been attending to 
a single word I said ! " 

Counsel looked up from his brief with a smile, keeping his 
place with his hand. 

" No, my lord," he assented blandly, " I knew it all by 
heart." 

The judge's sense of humour was irresistibly tickled. He 
made one brief vain effort to look stern and dignified, then 
he joined in the shout of laughter that shook the court. 

He was very clear and masterful in his judgments, and 
was almost invariably upheld on appeal. But on one 
occasion he was interrupted and reversed in his own court. 

It was an equity suit to determine the true construction 
of the last testament of a man who had disappeared some 
twenty years before, leaving a complex will, considerable 
property and a large number of relatives to scramble for it. 

The judge formed, as was his wont, a strong opinion, and 
expressed it strongly in his judgment. Having set forth his 
view of the will — 

" This," he said, "it is perfectly clear, was the true 
meaning and intention of the testator." 

" I beg your pardon, my lord," interrupted a voice in the 
body of the court, " it was nothing of the kind." 

The judge was struck dumb for a moment with anger and 
amazement. 

" How dare you, sir ! " he broke out at last. " How dare 
you interrupt the court in this scandalous fashion ! Who 
are you, sir ? " 

" I am the testator, my lord." 

Both the parties to the following amusing encoimter are 




Sir Edward Sullivan 

Late Lord Chancellor of Ireland. 



p. 138 



LAUGHTER IN COURT 139 

still alive, and both occupy high positions on the Bench, one 
in Ireland, the other in England. At the time the thing 
happened the more highly placed of the two judges was an 
advocate practising at the Irish Bar, an able lawyer and an 
eloquent speaker. He had, however, a peculiar trick of 
mixing the names of the parties, a particularly irritating 
trick — I have it myself, so I ought to know. 

In the case of " Brown v. Jones " he was engaged in an 
erudite law argument. For a long time Judge Holmes 
heard him with patience. 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Atkinson," he said at last. " So 
long as you persistently and consistently alluded to the 
plaintiff Brown as the defendant Jones and the defendant 
Jones as the plaintiff Brown, the court could contrive to 
follow your argument. But when you introduce a third 
party by the name of Robinson without explaining whether 
you intend him to represent the plaintiff Brown or the 
defendant Jones, a certain difficulty arises," 

On another occasion Lord Justice Holmes was himself 
amusingly countered by a junior barrister, who was 
defending a prisoner before him. Though the prisoner was 
a rather elderly man, counsel made frequent appeals to the 
jury to take into account the fact that he was an orphan. 

The judge grew impatient. 

" I really don't see," he exclaimed, " how the fact that 
your client is an orphan bears on the case. He is old 
enough to take care of himself, and it is quite natural at 
his age he should have lost his parents. For instance, I 
myself am an orphan." 

" Yes, my lord," interposed the counsel, " and should 
your lordship ever have the misfortune to come before a 
jury of your fellow-countr3niien, I trust that circumstance 
will be taken into consideration in your lordship's favour." 



CHAPTER XIV 
PRACTICE AT THE BAR 

On trial for his life — Murder will out — Three times tried — A close shave — 
A test of insanity — An unspeakable woman — Concocted confession — 
" I gave it to him in the groin " — Good coin or counterfeit ?— An 
ingenious fraud. 

EiK necessity, I knew no law when I was called to the 
Bar, I learned it by practice as a child learns to walk 
by walking. An old schoolfellow, Mr, Thomas O'Meara, 
who had just been entered as a solicitor, gave me all his 
business, and it is very pleasant to remember that in the 
first fourteen cases we worked together we scored thirteen 
wins. Amongst these cases were two actions for breach of 
promise of marriage. In one of them, brought by a butcher 
against a countess, we secured damages for the butcher ; 
in the other, brought by a young lady against a publican, 
the defendant, for whom we appeared, got his verdict with 
costs. 

I found criminal cases, though the least profitable, far 
the most exciting. In my time I defended as many as a 
score of prisoners for their lives, but I had the same feverish 
anxiety in the last case as in the first. 

People may say, " Why be anxious, especially when you 
know your client is guilty ? " An advocate, if he is worth 
his salt, never while the trial lasts believes in the guilt of the 
prisoner he is defending for his life. All other considerations 
are lost in the overwhelming desire to save his man from 
the gallows. 

It is an exciting game to play when the stakes are the life 
or death of the unhappy wretch who stands there grasping the 
spikes of the dock, with livid face and eyes of piteous appeal : 
a game of caution and skill that puts an almost unendurable 

140 



PRACTICE AT THE BAR 141 

strain on the nerves, A single question may save a man or 
hang him. The advocate has to get inside the brain and 
heart of the jury to find arguments to convince, appeals to 
move them. 

One man I remember well whom I defended at three 
separate trials — a good-looking, powerful, middle-aged man. 
He was accused of murdering his brother-in-law, a vicious 
drunkard, a ne'er-do-well, who made the lives of his wife 
and children a hell upon earth. One night this reprobate 
disappeared and was seen no more. His wife and children 
were made happy by his death. The brother, who was a 
well-to-do bachelor, helped them, and for fourteen years 
all went well with the family. Then, in the midst of security, 
the ghost of the forgotten victim rose from its grave. An 
accomplice confessed on his death-bed ; the skeleton of 
the murdered man was discovered in the bog-hole indicated 
in the confession, and a hundred corroborating circumstances 
unnoticed at the time were remembered. I was never in a 
case in which the evidence was so cruelly conclusive. There 
was hardly a loophole for the most shadowy doubt to 
creep in. 

Every day for a week I fought the battle for this man's life ; 
all night I lay awake thinking of him. The eyes that looked 
out from the dock, the eyes of a newly caged beast in deadly 
terror, were always before me. In the first trial the con- 
scientious doubt of a single juror alone stood between the 
prisoner and death : in the second there were three jurors 
in his favour ; in the third seven ; finally he was discharged 
a broken-down wreck of a man, the ghost of his former self. 

In another murder trial in which I appeared for the defence 
the accused had travelled all the way from the North of 
Ireland to shoot in Galway a pretty barmaid who had 
jilted him. The only possible defence was insanity, and he 
would have escaped on this plea of insanity, so a juror told 
me afterwards, but for one apparently trivial circumstance. 
When he arrived at Galway he had two glasses of raw 
whiskey to prime him for the murder. A madman, the jury 
shrewdly argued, would not need a stimulant ; so they 
convicted him. 



142 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

In another murder case I had the startHng illustration of 
the truth of Tennyson's lines : 

For men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, 
But women, best and worst, are heaven and hell. 

The malignant ingenuity displayed by a young girl who 
was chief witness in the case, passes belief. For some slight 
slur, real or fancied, she strove with devilish cunning to 
swear away the lives of two wholly innocent people. 

A policeman had been murdered at dusk in the streets of 
the small town of Loughrea. The girl, who was then in the 
service of a publican named Clarke, swore that she heard 
her master relate to his wife in circumstantial detail hov/ 
he committed the murder. 

The story was admirably devised and supported by a 
great deal of circumstantial corroboration. Clarke, more- 
over, had had many quarrels with the constable with regard 
to licensing prosecutions, and the impossibility of believing 
that a young girl could or would invent such a story told 
powerfully against the prisoner. 

A few days before the trial the solicitor who instructed 
me in the case came to me with the news that the chief 
witness for the prosecution was a girl of bad character, 
who had had an illegitimate child in the Portumna work- 
house. 

" She will deny it," I said. 

" I can prove it," he replied. 

" No, you can't." 

" But I can, I tell you. I have the evidence of the master 
and the matron and the midwife of the workhouse." 

" Not one of them will be allowed to open their lips in 
the case," I explained. " Her denial on cross-examination 
as to character must be accepted as conclusive. However, 
I'll see what I can do." 

When it came to the trial I had the master, matron and 
midwife all ranged together on a bench facing the jury box. 

The girl gave her evidence with wonderful coolness and 
ingenuity. She described Clarke telling the details of the 
murder to his wife in his bedroom, while the witness listened 
at the keyhole : 



PRACTICE AT THE BAR 143 

" I was waiting for him with the revolver ready when he 
came close up to me, I gave it to him in the groin, and he 
fell on the spot, I ran round the corner and came back again 
with the crowd when the body was found and they were 
carrying him to the police-station." 

Reading over the depositions, I found that her evidence 
at the trial was practically the same as she had sworn before 
the magistrates the day after the murder. It was impossible 
to break her down on cross-examination. As I anticipated, 
she denied point-blank the incident at the Portumna 
workhouse, and by law, as I have said, I was not allowed to 
controvert that denial. The expediency of the legal rule is 
plain enough. If it were otherwise a new issue might be 
raised about the character of every witness, and trials 
would be interminable. But there can be no doubt that 
the rule occasionally shuts an essential truth from the 
jury. 

This time I succeeded in getting the truth in by a side 
door, I told the witness to look at the master of the work- 
house where he sat fronting the jury. 

" Did you ever see that man before ? " 

" Never ! " 

The expression on his face was more valuable than any 
evidence he could have given on his oath. The matron's 
face when her turn came was a still more emphatic contra- 
diction. But the midwife lost all control of herself when the 
witness denied having ever seen her, she threw up her 
hands and her eyes in eloquent protest. 

" Oh, you huzzy, you lying huzzy," she cried, " how 
dare you swear the like o' that ! " 

There was a sharp order of silence in the court, but the 
truth had got to the jury in spite of the law. 

Then followed a strange little bit of evidence that abso- 
lutely exonerated the accused, and proved conclusively that 
the story of his confession was a lying concoction from 
beginning to end, " In the groin " of the murdered police- 
man, when his body was brought to the barracks, there 
had been found a gaping bullet-wound. No other wound 
was discovered at the time, and it was naturally assumed 



144 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

that the man was shot in the groin from in front. The girl 
was present on the occasion at the pohce barracks, and she 
shaped the alleged confession accordingly. 

But on subsequent examination a small wound was 
found where the bullet entered at the buttock and passed 
right through. The wound on the groin marking the exit of 
the bullet was, of course, the larger and the more conspicuous, 
but the medical evidence was conclusive. The doctor swore 
the man had been shot from behind, and so the whole case 
for the prosecution crumbled away and the prisoner was 
instantly acquitted. 

I never heard what became of the girl. 

As an illustration of a very ingenious swindle, the following 
otherwise unimportant case may not be without interest, 
I was instructed to defend a man for coining, and at first 
sight the case did certainly appear very strong against the 
prisoner. 

He had gone to a shopkeeper in Sligo and suggested a 
partnership in a coining campaign. As a proof of good 
faith, he offered there and then to coin a base half-crown 
which it would be impossible to detect. He had with him 
a wooden frame lined with tin, with a rude mould of a half- 
crown in the middle. Into a small hole in the wood he 
poured some white metal from a ladle, and presently 
opening the mould he took out a new half-crown so hot 
that the shopkeeper could not hold it in his hands, and so 
perfectly made that the closest scrutiny could not detect 
any difference between it and the genuine coin. It was 
subjected to a still more stringent test. The shopkeeper 
brought it to the bank and boldly asked if it was all 
right. He was assured that it was a perfectly genuine half- 
crown, and at his request they readily exchanged it for 
another. 

Then the coiner explained he could make as many as he 
chose, but he wanted a few pounds to buy " the stuff." The 
cupidity of the shopkeeper was aroused, and he agreed to 
supply the money on the understanding he was to get half 
the profit. The coiner got five pounds on account and 
instantly vanished with his apparatus. But his enraged 



PRACTICE AT THE BAR 145 

and deluded confederate put the police on his track, and he 
was brought to trial at the Sligo Assizes. 

The case was a puzzling one. I could not understand 
how the man with the rude contrivance I held in my hand 
could make a half-crown so perfect as to deceive the bank. 
Closely examining the wooden press, I suddenly lit on the 
solution of the mystery. 

The hole in the wood into which the white metal was 
poured did not run into the mould at all, but lodged it in a 
cavity at the back. In the mould itself a genuine half-crown 
had been surreptitiously placed before the operation com- 
menced. When the coin had been sufficiently heated by the 
molten metal at the back, the mould was opened and the 
good half-crown triumphantly displayed. 

My client was indicted for coining, but obtaining money 
on false pretences was the crime of which he was actually 
guilty. As there was neither attempt nor intent to coin he 
could not be convicted on the indictment. I explained the 
trick in court, and the prisoner was acquitted and discharged 
by the direction of the judge. 

One other case in which I was engaged by my friend 
Tom O'Meara is worth recalling on account of the curious 
result of our victory. The names of the parties have escaped 
my memory, which keeps a tight hold of the facts, but the 
names are not material. 

A very old pedlar, whom I shall call Sullivan (I think that 
was the name), had amassed the sum of £1800, which he kept 
in bank on deposit receipt. He took sick on his beat and 
was received into the house of a farmer named Flanagan, 
when he died, and a few days after his death a will was 
produced in which he left " all he died possessed of " to 
Flanagan. 

Another farmer named Sullivan came to my friend 
O'Meara with instructions to enter a caveat, alleging that 
he was next of kin of the deceased pedlar ; and I was 
engaged on his behalf to dispute the will. 

Very early in the trial I convinced myself that the will 
was an absolute forgery, and that we would have no difficulty 
in setting it aside. My suspicions were confirmed when, 



146 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

during the lunch hour, the soUcitor on the other side ap- 
proached my friend with an offer to pay £1000 and costs 
between sohcitor and chent if the opposition was with- 
drawn. On this offer I decHned to give any opinion 
beyond stating my behef that the will could not stand. 
The case proceeded and the will was set aside with costs. 

Now comes the startling result. Our client subsequently 
failed to prove himself any relation to the deceased pedlar. 
He never touched a farthing of the assets, the entire property 
passed to the Crown, and it was with the utmost difficulty 
we got our costs allowed as a salvage claim. 

Had the compromise been accepted, two people, neither 
of whom had the slightest claim, legal or moral, would have 
divided the money between them. 



CHAPTER XV 
A NEW DEPARTURE 

William O'Brien, writer, orator, agitator — United Ireland — My first 
connection with the paper — Coercion — A unique newspaper — Lord 
Clanricarde and Sanguinette — A curious apology — Defiance and 
immunity. 

THOUGH always a convinced and outspoken Home 
Ruler, I had, before I was called to the Bar, taken 
little share in politics beyond what came in the way of my 
duty as a writer and reporter on a Nationalist newspaper. 
I was settling down to a jog-trot career at the Bar, with a 
steadily growing practice and income, when my friend 
William O'Brien called on me in my rooms in Henrietta 
Street and altered the whole tenor of my life. 

He had been a colleague of mine on the Freeman's Journal, 
and had been generally regarded as the most brilliant 
member on the staff. But he was, above all things, a 
fervent Nationalist, and had been induced by Mr. Parnell 
to abandon the Freeman and to found and edit United Ireland 
as a weekly campaign sheet for the National movement. 

Perhaps this is as good a place as any to describe this very 
remarkable man, who has played so strenuous a part in the 
recent history of Ireland. 

When I first met him on the Freeman's Journal staff he 
gave me the idea of being a student rather than an orator 
or agitator. He had a rooted repugnance to public speaking. 
I remember once his surprise in those early days that I 
could eat my dinner comfortably at some little Press 
festivity when I was down as one of the speakers on the 
toast list. Such an ordeal, he assured me, would most 
efficiently spoil his appetite. He was afterwards to become 
the greatest platform speaker of his day, the greatest that 

147 



148 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Ireland has known since O'Connell, an orator whose words 
could inspire his audience with an enthusiasm almost 
amounting to frenzy. Yet he has often told me that his 
repugnance to public speaking has not diminished in the 
least, that a speech is still for him as painful an ordeal as 
ever. As an agitator he was unsurpassed. His fiery 
earnestness carried all before it. Absolutely fearless, he was 
ready for any sacrifice, and when he led all were prepared 
to follow, doubts and fears forgotten. Lowell's description 
of Lincoln fits him like a glove : — 

He could not see but just one side. 
If his 'twas God's, and that was plenty. 
And so his " forward " multiplied 
One army's fighting weight to twenty. 

This was the man that came to me one evening as I sat, 
over my briefs and law books in a great lofty room with 
the ceiling like the top of a wedding-cake, at a huge round 
mahogany table (I have it still), which was once the dining- 
table of Lord Mount joy. 

He wanted to consult me on a question of law. A man 
named Hynes had just been convicted of murder (unjustly 
convicted, it was believed) by a packed jury and had been 
hanged, to the last protesting innocence on the scaffold, 
and O'Brien had written a strong article on the subject for 
United Ireland. At the time he wanted to keep within the 
law, to give the Castle no reasonable pretext for a prose- 
cution, and he invited me, as a lawyer, to revise the 
article. Ultimately I persuaded him it was best to put the 
protest in verse form, which I wrote then and there, I only 
remember the last verse : 

" Not guilty," he said, looking death in the face 
On the brink of the grave where he stood. 

" Not guilty, but j'ou who have compassed my death, 
You are guilty of innocent blood." 

It was my first contribution to United Ireland, but before 
O'Brien left that night he had persuaded me to write an 
occasional leading article for the paper. I objected that I 
was too busy with the law, but there was no resisting 
O'Brien when he had his heart set on anything. I did not 




ih; z, 



A NEW DEPARTURE 149 

then foresee as the result of my promise I should in a short 
time become, and continue for many years, the acting 
editor and chief writer of United Ireland. 

It came about this way. Mr. Balfour started his coercion 
campaign in Ireland, and William O'Brien at once set 
himself to the task of opposing it and defeating it. 

Naturally he was one of the first victims, and on his 
imprisonment he refused to wear the prison clothes. One 
night his own clothes were stolen while he slept, but a few 
days later he contrived to have a new suit introduced into 
his cell, and no further attempt was made to compel him to 
wear the prisoners' dress. 

The whole incident created immense excitement in Ireland. 
" The O'Brien tweed " was the only wear for National- 
ists. In the first of two cartoons in United Ireland Mr. 
Balfour was depicted as a turnkey stealing the clothes 
while O'Brien slept. The other displayed his grotesque 
amazement at finding his victim reclothed. Ridicule is a 
most fatal weapon in Ireland ; the incident was a sharp 
blow for the coercion administration. 

But it will be easily understood that this protracted duel 
left William O'Brien little time to edit United Ireland or 
write its editorials, and so that burden gradually shifted 
itself on to my shoulders. 

In all newspaper literature there was never a paper like 
United Ireland. It disdained advertisements and neglected 
all news except the news directly connected with the 
National movement. It lived and flourished by its editorials 
and cartoons alone, and it had a circulation of over a 
hundred thousand copies, a circulation never equalled 
before or since by any Irish newspaper. For several years, 
right up to the Parnell split, I was acting editor and almost 
sole editorial writer of United Ireland. 

I wrote a weekly page of editorials, and suggested in 
detail the cartoon depicting the chief political event of 
the week. During those coercion days Mr. Balfour was, of 
course, the chief figure in our cartoons, some of which are 
perhaps worth reproducing. From a popular play came 
the suggestion of our Private Secretary, who did not like 



150 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Dublin. After William O'Brien's clothes were stolen in 
prison Mr. Balfour was always depicted as the thief. 

All this time Mr. O'Brien remained editor of the paper 
and responsible for its contents. Once, when he was carried 
off to prison, there was next day a letter to him at the office 
from an estimable and sympathetic parish priest to say he 
had at once " missed his brilliant pen from the pages of the 
paper." O'Brien had not written a line for the paper for 
six months previously. Such is the power of imagination ! 

United Ireland was conducted in defiance of the law of 
libel. That is to say, that we told the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth, and took the consequences. 
The result was eminently satisfactory. During the years 
that I was acting editor of the paper we had many threats 
of a libel action, but no action. 

Only once in my time was an apology printed in the 
paper, and that was under circumstances so peculiar that it 
deserves to be recorded. 

" The most noble " the Marquis of Clanricarde was the 
subject of many attacks in United Ireland. It was rumoured 
that his lordship lent money at high interest, and we rashly 
confounded him with that famous and more appropriately 
named money-lender, Sanguinette. 

One morning I found at the office a long and eloquently 
worded protest from Sanguinette. He bitterly complained 
of being in any way identified or connected with the Marquis 
of Clanricarde, and enclosed his photograph as proof of his 
identity, demanding, " in the interest of fair play, on which 
your paper prides itself," an ample apology. 

Thereupon United Ireland published its first and last 
apology, humble and ample. " It was a gross insult," I 
wrote, " to compare even the most merciless usurer with the 
most noble Marquis of Clanricarde. We could easily 
understand," we declared, " Mr. Sanguinette's indignation 
at so invidious a comparison. We willingly withdraw the 
charge, and apologize to Mr. Sanguinette for having 
made it." 

United Ireland in my time had not only immunity from 
libel actions, but, stranger still, it had immunity from 




Cartoon from " United Ireland," Oct. i6, 1887 

Our Private Secretary 



p. 150 



A NEW DEPARTURE 151 

coercion prosecutions. Amongst the offences created by 
the Coercion Act was the attending of a meeting of a "sup- 
pressed branch " of the National League, or pubhshing any 
report of the proceedings. It did not matter in the least 
how innocent of all offence might be the nature of the 
proceedings or the report. The essence of the crime lay in the 
proclamation. There was no " offence " under the Coercion 
Act more zealously prosecuted or punished, T. D. Sullivan, 
then the Lord Mayor of Dublin, got six months' imprison- 
ment for the publication of one of those harmless reports in 
his paper ; and Mr. John Hooper, Mayor of Cork, a similar 
sentence for a similar publication. 

Nor was that the worst. Reporters were imprisoned for 
writing the reports, compositors were imprisoned for 
printing them, and newsboys for selling copies of the papers 
that contained them. All that time United Ireland weekly 
published a full page of the proceedings of every suppressed 
branch in Ireland. 

I remember well the foreman printer, Mr, Donnelly, who 
was a kind of factotum in the office, consulting me as to what 
was to be done in regard to these forbidden reports, 

" Put them," I said, " under a big heading, ' suppressed 
BRANCHES,' in the front page of the paper," 

For three years they were printed and published within 
a mile of the Castle with absolute impunity, while every 
other Nationalist paper was harassed with prosecution, 

I have often tried since to calculate how many hundred 
years' imprisonment I earned by those reports. But the 
sum was beyond me. Anyhow, I got none. 



CHAPTER XVI 
THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 

A letter from O'Brien — The Forgeries Commission — Contempt of court 
and what came of it — Incidents of the Coercion Courts — Withdrawing 
the tone — The steaUng of the informations — Mr. Balfour and the 
midwife — A comical conflict — Evading service — Caught ! 

NEVER had a man a kindlier or more encouraging 
chief than O'Brien during the years I acted as his 
deputy in the editorial chair of United Ireland. In all the 
numerous letters I received from him during that time I 
find words of encouragement and approval, in a few sugges- 
tion, in none complaint. I may perhaps be allowed to offer a 
single sample of the correspondence. The following letter he 
contrived to slip out to me from Galway Jail on May 4th, 
1889. It is written in pencil on a scrap of tissue-paper : — 

" Galway Jail, 

" Saturday night, 

" May 4ih, 1889. 
" My dear Mat, 

" Glad to have a chance of blowing a greeting to you. 
I am deprived of only two luxuries — the sight of newspapers 
and of ladies. At a paper I do manage to get a rare — and only 
a rare — peep, but you will not be sorry, I hope, to hear that 
every number of UJ. I have seen does you infinite credit 
and has raised higher and higher my belief in your vigour, 
wit and sense. I cannot give you any better advice than 
fire away and God bless you (and my little godchild, as I 
seem fated not to be able to send any better marks of 
paternal interest than a blessing). Ask Whelan to hunt up 
for me a copy of my pamphlet ' Christmas on the Galtees,' 
in my black tin case at the hotel ; also report in Freeman 
of my first speech in Parliament (about March, 1883), and 

152 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION i53 

send them on to Harrington or whatever London prison I 
may be sent to. Kindest regards to Donnelly and all the 
fellows. Ever your friend, 

" W. O'B. 

" I have written half an Irish novel — how delighted 
Balfour will be to hear it — but I am very doubtful whether 
the best place for the MS. would not be the fire. I should 
like to have your opinion, it is such a ticklish experiment. 

" W. O'B." 

Yet the solitary personal request that I made to O'Brien 
in my character of acting editor of United Ireland he 
peremptorily refused. It came about in this way. 

The Times Commission, always described in United 
Ireland as " the Forgeries Commission," was then in full 
swing. It will be remembered that the Commission was 
appointed mainly, if not solely, to investigate the genuine- 
ness of several documents published in The Times and 
alleged to be " facsimiles of letters " written by Mr. 
Parnell, clearly implicating him in the Phoenix Park murders. 
But The Times, when the Commission was appointed, 
shirked the issue of the letters, and devoted month after 
month to raking up agrarian offences in Ireland, endeavour- 
ing to connect them with the National organization of 
which Mr. Parnell was the head. There was naturally great 
impatience amongst Irish Nationalists at this delay in 
attempting to substantiate the direct and deadly charge 
made against the Irish leader. After the dilatory pro- 
ceedings had dragged their slow length for some months, I 
attempted to quicken the pace of the Commission by a 
leader and cartoon in United Ireland. 

In the cartoon was depicted a long train of the Irish 
Constabulary wheeling up barrow-loads of rubbish with 
which they were burying the judges, while the forged 
letters were hidden away under a tombstone. 

In the article I strongly denouijced The Times as the 
" forger," and roundly declared it was shirking the investiga- 
tion of the letters because it knew them to be forged. 

There was an immediate application by The Times 



154 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

against the editor of United Ireland for contempt of court, 
and a conditional order was made by the Commission that 
he should appear and show cause why he should not be 
fined and imprisoned. 

This was just before the court adjourned for a fortnight. 
The cause was to be shown on the resumption of the sitting. 

Meanwhile I had an interview with William O'Brien, and 
begged as a personal favour that I should be allowed to take 
the defence of the article I had written on my own shoulders. 
I assured him that I had written it with the hope of proceed- 
ings and with a view to its defence. The gravamen of the 
charge was that The Times had been called the " forger " 
and the letters " forgeries," in anticipation of the decision of 
the Commission. But, I argued The Times was guilty of 
equal contempt of court in constantly alluding to the 
letters as " facsimiles " of original letters of Mr. Parnell's. 

I urged in vain. It was impossible, O'Brien said, that he 
could allow anyone but himself to take the responsibility 
for United Ireland. 

" But, my dear boy," he added, " you have done me a 
personal service. There are half a dozen Coercion summonses 
and warrants out against me at present. If I am caught 
first by The Times I will be treated as a first-class mis- 
demeanant, which is luxury compared to the lot of a 
Coercion Court prisoner." 

His first idea was to treat the whole procedure with 
contempt, and to decline to attend. But I convinced him 
that we had so strong a case that it would be a pity not to 
make it. His defence was a complete triumph. The 
conditional order was discharged, and for very shame sake 
The Times was compelled to produce the forged letters, which 
were instantly exposed. The result was the collapse of the 
case, the disgrace of The Tim^s, the suicide of the forger, 
Pigott, and the complete vindication of ParneU. 

It is not to be supposed that while engaged on United 
Ireland I neglected the legal profession. The battle against 
Coercion was fought in the courts as well as in the newspaper 
office, and in a number of strange and exciting cases I was 
counsel for the defence. 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 155 

Very early in the campaign against eviction, I was 
engaged as counsel to defend a number of tenants in the 
County of Wexford, who had made a vigorous stand against 
eviction by the emergency forces. Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt's 
volume of vivid description of the Land Wars in Ireland has 
an interesting allusion to the case : — 

" At Gorey we went straight to the court-house with a 
number of priests and others to be present at the trial. The 
prisoners were half a dozen men and four women, who had 
defended their homes against the sheriff's officers, very 
respectable people to all appearance ; and the first girl, 
Mary Macdonnell, put on her trial was only seventeen. She 
sat next to me, and I asked her about her relations. There 
are no boys in the family, and she defended the place by 
throwing hot gruel on the bailiffs. She looked barely her 
age, a blushing child of the shepherdess kind, or rather like 
one of Morland's milkmaids. She had really done the 
thing and scalded one of the men, but Bodkin, who defended 
her, managed to make the whole case so ridiculous that they 
let her off. The chairman of the court was Lord Courtown, 
who accidentally happened to be President of the Property 
Defence Association, whose secretary was Captain Hamilton, 
the agent and evictor, and this Bodkin took hold of very 
cleverly and to such effect that it was almost impossible the 
Bench should convict any one. I never was more struck 
than to-day with the cleverness of all the Irish concerned 
in these cases and the dullness of the Englishmen, or rather of 
the landlords and their semi-English retainers. . . . After 
the sessions we adjourned to the inn and sat down, some 
twenty of us, to dinner, when songs followed and speeches, 
my health being drunk and Bodkin's. Bodkin, who is a very 
amusing man and really good fellow, has lately been acting 
as editor of United Ireland in O'Brien's absence. He con- 
siders O'Brien's visit to Canada, on the whole, a success, 
but this is not everybody's opinion, notably not Davitt's, 
though they are all fond of O'Brien. . . . Drove down 
before breakfast with Bodkin to the sea to bathe. There 
was not a ripple on the surface, and we jumped in off a rock 
into several feet of water. Bodkin tells me they have often 



156 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

asked him to go into Parliament, he is really as clever a man 
and speaker as any of them, but he cannot afford it as he has 
his living to make ; but as soon as there is a Parliament in 
Dublin he will stand. He is far from a revolutionist in his 
ideas, and considers that the landlords will be of great use, 
politically, to Ireland in the first years of Home Rule. The 
only wonder to my mind is how few landlords have joined 
the cause. But the truth is there is a monstrous class 
prejudice and a prejudice of religion." 

I share Mr. Blunt's wonder that the great body of Irish 
landlords have held aloof from the Home Rule movement ; 
and I still hold my belief that they will receive, not merely 
full fair play, but a great deal of favour in an Irish Parlia- 
ment. 

A little later I was engaged to defend in a case of greater 
importance. The Woodfort tenants of the Marquis of 
Clanricarde were indicted for resistance to eviction. The 
cases, which excited intense interest at the time, were 
tried in Sligo, and I was engaged with the late Mr. Leamy, 
M.p,, as counsel for the defence. We began by challenging 
the array, and succeeded in having the whole jury panel set 
aside as improperly drawn. The incident was commemorated 
by a cartoon in United Ireland. The next time the jury 
packing was done in open court by the Crown Solicitor. 
The Catholic jurors were ordered to stand aside by the 
hundred, and Protestants and Unionists only were admitted 
to the jury box. Mr. Leamy and myself left the court as a 
protest, and after we left the Protestant jurors declined to 
convict. It was on that occasion that the Chief Justice, 
Lord O'Brien of Kilfonora, then Serjeant O'Brien, q.c, got 
the nickname of " Pether the Packer," by which he is 
better known than by his title in Ireland. 

But it was mainly in courts especially constituted under 
the Coercion Act that Nationalists were attacked and 
defended. These courts, as I have said, consisted of two 
paid magistrates, declared by Mr. Morley to be " Removable 
and Promovable " by the Government. " Removables^" 
they were dubbed by United Ireland, and the name stuck. 

It must, indeed, be confessed that Nationalist counsel 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 157 

were not over-polite to the " Removables," who frequently 
retorted in kind by having them fired out of court. Mr. 
Healy, for example, was twice hurled out by the police. 
Looking back over my own exploits before the magistrates, 
I wonder how I escaped a similar fate. 

It was provided in the Act that the Lord-Lieutenant must 
be " satisfied with the legal knowledge " of one of the two 
magistrates, but it was not specified how that " satisfac- 
tion " was to be acquired. The other magistrate might be 
assumed to be wholly ignorant of law. 

In one of those Coercion cases, as counsel for the defence, 
I somewhat fluttered the court by politely inquiring which 
of the two magistrates was " the gentleman of the sufficiency 
of whose legal knowledge the Lord-Lieutenant was satisfied." 
One of the two touched himself on the breast, and coyly 
murmured, " I am the person," while his colleague blushed 
like a schoolgirl. 

But the Crown Prosecutor in his speech took the Bench 
under his protection, and declared the magistrates a tribunal 
infinitely superior to the old-fashioned system of trial by 
jury. 

On that hint I spake, and drew a contemptuous 
comparison between the great constitutional tribunal, the 
palladium of the people's liberty, and a " brace of hired 
Government officials," " one of whom in some mysterious 
manner had satisfied the Viceroy of his knowledge of the 
law." 

I was sternly interrupted by the magistrates, and called 
upon for an instant withdrawal and apology. 

There was a moment's silence and suspense, for those 
were days, as I have already said, when defendant's counsel 
were constantly fired out of court by the police. 

" I think there must be some mistake," I replied, with a 
conciliatory smile. " I described you as ' hired Govern- 
ment officials.' Are you not Government officials ? Are 
you not hired ? Are you ashamed of your position ? To 
what can you object ? " 

" We object to the whole tone," blundered out one of the 
magistrates furiously. 



158 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" Oh, now I understand. Then, your worships, I wilHngly 
withdraw the tone. A brace of hired Government officials," 
I repeated in a voice as soft as the cooing of a turtle-dove, 
" Will that do ? Thank you," and before the court had 
recovered from its bewilderment I had resumed the even 
tenor of my speech. 

On another occasion I defended Mr. Cox, m.p., and Mr. 
T. P. Gill, M.P., before a Coercion court in Dundalk and, an 
almost unique experience, defended them successfully. 
My knowledge of shorthand helped me to an effective cross- 
examination of the constable, who purported to take down 
the speeches for which the Members of Parliament were 
tried. The result was the complete and palpable collapse 
of evidence. 

There were a number of English magistrates in court, 
who had come over to see for themselves the working of the 
Coercion Act in Ireland. 

When my turn came to speak, I turned my back to the 
court and addressed myself to the English magistrates 
instead of the Removables. I pointed to the utter collapse 
of the prosecution. " You, gentlemen," I concluded, " are 
impartial English magistrates, independent of the executive. 
If you had to try this case you would unanimously and 
unhesitatingly acquit my clients, and transfer the perjured 
constable from the witness-table to the dock." 

In a row the Englishmen nodded their assent, while the 
poor Removables looked on in dismay. Then they retired 
to consider their decision, and to the amazement of every- 
one acquitted the accused. 

None were more astonished at the result than the accused 
themselves. When the magistrates retired Mr. Cox went 
out to have a drink, the last, as he whispered to me, that he 
would have the chance of having for some months." 

By the time he got back the case was over and the 
decision announced. 

" How much ? " he asked. 

" Nothing," I replied ; " you are acquitted." 

He laughed in my face. The thing was incredible. I had 
to swear it was true before he would believe me. 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 159 

One incident in connection with this trial exhibits the 
comic character of the government of Ireland in those days. 
Some hundreds of police, with rifles and fowling-pieces, 
were drafted into Dundalk where the trial was heard. They 
were invading troops in a hostile country, rigidly boycotted 
by all the inhabitants of the town whom they had come 
" to protect from intimidation." Outcasts and pariahs, 
food, drink and every form of accommodation was refused 
them. 

On the other hand, the " criminals " were honoured 
guests, feted and cheered by the entire population. The 
day before the trial they were invited to lunch with the 
Mayor, and I, as their counsel, was included in the invitation. 
In the midst of the sumptuous repast a mysterious message 
was conveyed to the Mayor, who presided. He left the 
room for a moment, and after lunch he desired a private 
consultation with the criminals and myself. 

It turned out that he had had an interview with the Inspector 
in charge of the police. To understand the incongruous 
character of the Inspector's mission to the Mayor, it must 
be remembered that Mr. Balfour's policy, as explained to 
Mr. Wilfrid Blunt, was to treat the political opponents 
captured in the net of coercion as degraded criminals. That 
was all very well for Mr. Balfour li\dng in another country, 
but the home atmosphere of admiration in which those 
men were the most honoured of the community was too 
strong. The Inspector's better feeling revolted against 
conveying two respected Members of Parliament on a 
common outside car from the court to the railway station 
on their way to jail, which no one doubted was their ultimate 
destination. 

He applied at the principal hotel for a carriage and pair, 
but the hotel proprietor curtly refused to have any inter- 
course with the pariah. His interview with the Mayor was 
to induce him to plead with Mr. Gill, as Member for the 
Division, to allow the boycott to be raised for the purpose of 
procuring a carriage for himself and his fellow-criminal. 
Mr. Gill graciously consented, and the carriage was waiting 
at the court-house when the trial concluded, and drove 



i6o RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

the criminals through cheering crowds not to the station on 
their way to jail, but to the residence of the Mayor. 

By far the most interesting and exciting of the Coercion 
cases in which I was engaged was a trial of Mr. William 
O'Brien at Loughrea, in which I had Mr. Healy as colleague 
for the defence. 

After the Coercion Act had been some years in full swing, 
Mr. Balfour, in a reckless moment, boasted at a public 
meeting that " the Irish National League was a thing of 
the past." 

Mr. O'Brien instantly took up the challenge. He called a 
public meeting at Loughrea, which was perhaps the best 
proclaimed district in Ireland. An enormous crowd attended 
the meeting from all parts of the County of Galway. But 
an army of soldiers and constabulary was poured into the 
town, the demonstration was proclaimed and suppressed, 
and Mr. O'Brien was prosecuted by Mr. Balfour for attending 
a meeting of the very league which Mr. Balfour himself had 
just declared to be a thing of the past. 

Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt accompanied O'Brien and his 
counsel and solicitor to Loughrea. In his book on " The 
Land War in Ireland," to which allusion has already been 
made, he writes : — 

" April 26. We started by an early train for Woodtowm 
(Loughrea), O'Brien, Healy, Chance, Bodkin and myself. A 
merry party we were. You would think we were going to a 
wedding rather than to a trial, but the Irish have the 
blessing of high spirits and no one more so than O'Brien." 

I remember well as we walked together up a long, steep 
hill to ease the horse, O'Brien picked himself a nosegay of 
primroses under the hedgerows, declaring that he was not 
going to abandon the sweetest of wild flowers to the enemy — 
this when he was on the way to an inevitable sentence of 
six months' imprisonment. 

Our line of defence was peculiar. To constitute a meeting 
of a suppressed Branch of the League it was necessary, in 
the words of the Coercion Act, that the member of the 
League sought to be incriminated should have attended 
" as such." 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION i6i 

Day after day for weeks we produced a battalion of 
witnesses, who each in his turn swore : "I am a member of 
the National League. Every respectable man in the district 
is a member of the League. I attended the meeting, but I 
did not attend it as such." 

" Why did you attend ? " was the next question, 

" To make a liar of Balfour." 

Our object was, of course, to cover the whole proceedings 
with ridicule, and we succeeded. An interminable pro- 
cession of witnesses appeared on the table who all swore 
substantially the same thing. 

We endeavoured, as far as possible, to diversify the 
proceedings. Mr. Healy and I had a standing bet of six- 
pence as to which of us would keep our witness (we examined 
them turn about) longest on the witness table replying to 
wholly absurd and irrelevant questions. 

We carried the game on openly in the face of the court, 
with watches on the table in front of us, and we passed the 
money, or took it, as we lost or won. 

Every evening the accused and his counsel were hospitably 
entertained by the Most Rev. Dr. Duggan, the best bishop and 
the best Irishman I have ever met. To a suggestion made 
by O'Brien one evening at dinner that we were intruding 
unwarrantably on his hospitality, the bishop replied by 
calling out to the factotum who waited behind his chair : 

" Pat, kill another pig." 

Meanwhile the unhappy Removables vainly strove to 
stem the overwhelming flood of evidence that we poured 
upon them. 

To all their remonstrance Mr. Healy or myself blandly 
replied that if we had succeeded in convincing them of our 
client's innocence they had only to say so, otherwise we must 
continue to offer the evidence until they were convinced. 

After three weeks of this burlesque, one morning the 
Removables appeared in court, pale and trembling, to 
announce that the vast accumulated pile of depositions 
had been stolen overnight. 

Mr. Healy had before this been called away to Dublin, 
and I was then in sole charge. I was surprised, indignant 

M 



i62 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and incredulous. The depositions, I declared, would 
conclusively establish my client's innocence on appeal. 
They were in charge of the court, how had they disappeared ? 
I demanded an opportunity of examining the magistrates on 
oath. As I anticipated, the longsuffering Removables were 
indignant at this suggestion, and refusing further proof or 
explanation, proceeded to begin the trial de novo. 

This was exactly what I wanted. I cross-examined no 
witness for the Crown, and called no witnesses for the 
defence. The case was over in a few hours, and the accused 
sentenced to six months with hard labour. 

But there was still left to us the right of appeal before a 
division of the superior court, presided over by the Lord 
Chief Baron, the most conscientious of lawyers. 

Under the Coercion Act the accused was entitled to have 
produced on appeal the whole of the depositions in the 
court below. The depositions were, of course, not forth- 
coming, and there was no proof or explanation of their 
disappearance. 

After a long argument the case was adjourned to enable 
the Removables to produce the depositions, and we heard 
no more of the charge. All Ireland laughed at the collapse 
of the prosecution. 

I have been informed on excellent authority that the one 
thing in the whole Coercion campaign that really irritated 
Mr. Balfour was the libel action brought against him by 
the midwife Peggy Dillon. But I am sure that he has long 
since forgotten his annoyance and is now ready to laugh at 
the incident. It happened in this way : — 

In his speech on the introduction of the Coercion Act, 
Mr. Balfour took occasion to refer to the alleged misconduct 
of a midwife in the West of Ireland named Peggy Dillon. 
He detailed the alleged refusal of Peggy to perform the 
functions of her office for the wife of a land-grabber, with a 
doleful horror at the obduracy of the midwife and with a 
S3niipathetic tenderness for the patient that awakened 
roars of laughter in an irreverent House — laughter which 
the tender-hearted Secretary indignantly rebuked. Nothing 
further was heard of the incident for some little time. The 




Cartoon from "United Ireland," May 12, 1888 

At It Again 

Balfour runs away with the depositions for O'Brien's defences from the Loughrea court- 
house, as he ran away with his clothes from the prison cell at TuUamore. 



p. 162 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 163 

Coercion Act passed, and Mr. Balfour thought no more of 
the slandered midwife. 

But trouble was brewing. A sworn contradiction was 
first published in the papers. Of this he took no heed. A 
letter from her solicitor demanding an apology was similarly 
disregarded ; then on April 27th, 1887, I was instructed to 
apply to the courts for liberty to serve a writ out of the 
jurisdiction. The following are some interesting extracts 
from the midwife's affidavit on which the motion was 
founded : — 

" That I am informed and believe that the intended 
defendant, on divers times and occasions, spoke and pub- 
lished of and concerning me in my business, profession and 
calling, certain false and slanderous statements, to wit — 
that I refused to attend a woman in her confinement, on the 
ground that she was the wife of a man who worked for a 
boycotted person, and that I yielded to intimidation or 
undue influence in said refusal, and said defendant made use 
of said alleged refusal by me as the principal argument in 
favour of passing a Coercion Act for Ireland. 

" There is no truth whatever in such statements. As the 
said intended defendant must have well known, it is the 
custom in my profession to be engaged some time before the 
event, and on the day on which this woman's husband came 
for me I was called to another patient, who had previously 
engaged my services, and whom, according to the rules of my 
profession, I was obliged to attend. 

" That the publication of the said slanders by the said 
intended defendant has greatly injured my character and 
interfered with me in the pursuit of my profession and 
calling, and greatly decreased my practice and emoluments, 
and exposed me to ridicule and contempt from my neigh- 
bours, who are for the most part Nationalists and who are, 
naturally, indignant that my alleged unfeeling conduct 
should have brought discredit on the Irish cause, and should 
be urged by the said intended defendant as the main ground 
for a Bill for the Coercion of all Ireland," 

It is easy to imagine the storm of laughter the application 
created in the court. But Judge Andrews, though a pro- 



i64 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

found lawyer, was the most unsuspecting and courteous 
of men. By a miracle I kept my countenance while I 
argued the case, and he listened with the utmost gravity 
while the court shook with laughter. Ultimately he suggested 
that we should file further affidavits. 

I was told that when one of his brother judges questioned 
him as to the cause of the row in court, which he had 
overheard in his robing-room, he could offer no explana- 
tion. 

" A very interesting case on service out of jurisdiction 
was argued by Bodkin," he said, but he could not remember 
the names of the parties to the action. 

I decided not to renew the application, but to have Mr. 
Balfour served personally with the writ when he next 
came to Ireland. Then there was a most amusing interlude. 
The despotic ruler of Ireland was frightened from the 
country by a midwife. He had boasted that he had made 
the Queen's writ run in Ireland, now he ran from it. The 
situation naturally created excitement and amusement, 
and evoked much satirical comment and many cartoons in 
the National newspapers. 

The following account of the service of the writ, which 
appeared in the Freeman's Journal, September 20th, 1887, 
reads like an incident in one of Lever's novels. Whenever 
the Chief Secretary paid a flying visit to Ireland the process- 
server in charge of the writ strove hard to effect service, but 
was constantly baffled by officials, who, evidently suspecting 
his mission, persistently misinformed him about the where- 
abouts of Mr. Balfour. This is how the writ was served 
at last : — 

" His first attempt," wrote the Freeman's Journal, " was 
on the Chief Secretary's Lodge, which seemed to be deserted 
except for a few policemen loitering round the grounds. 
There he failed to effect an entrance, but he was more 
successful at the Viceregal Lodge, where the footman 
confessed that Mr. Balfour was upstairs in bed. But after 
a long wait the poor process-server was informed that the 
Chief Secretary had just left through a side door for parts 
unknown. Still determined to effect service if possible, he 




Cartoon from "United Ireland," May 7, 18 



Minister and Midwife 



Miss Maggie Dillon (midwife and monthly nurse) : " I'll tache ye to take away an 
honest woman's character." 



p. 164 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 165 

pursued him to the Castle, where he learned that there were 
strict orders that nobody was to be allowed to see Mr. 
Balfour, He thereupon adopted the ingenious stratagem 
of declaring that he was the bearer of an urgent message 
from the Lord Chancellor to the Chief Secretary, which was 
literally true, as the preamble of a writ is a printed " greeting 
from the Lord Chancellor," though, needless to say, the 
process-server did not explain the nature of the message. 
Admitted at last into the room where the Chief Secretary 
was engaged with some officials, he had no difficulty in 
recognizing him from the cartoons in the Nationalist papers. 

" Nothing could exceed the Chief Secretary's annoyance 
when he was presented with the copy of the writ. He first 
turned pale and then flushed scarlet, and made a motion as 
though he would throw the document on the ground and 
then trample on it. With a great effort he restrained himself, 
and directed that it should be taken to Sir William Kaye, 
who was then acting as Under Secretary, and who instructed 
a solicitor to appear for Mr. Balfour." 

The successful service was celebrated in United Ireland 
by a cartoon, " You Dirty Boy," and some doggerel lines : 

There was a young man of position 

Who set out on a mud-slinging mission. 

Having slandered a midwife for fun 

He instantly started to run, 

But she caught him before he could mizzle. 

" With scrubbing-brush rough as a thistle," 

Said bould Peggy Dillon, 

" You mane little villain, 

I'll scrub you as clane as a whistle." 

The writ was followed in due course by a statement of 
claim, of which the following is a specimen paragraph : — 

" By reason of the said libel and slander by the defendant 
of the plaintiff, the plaintiff was deeply injured in her 
personal and professional character, and credit and reputa- 
tion as a woman and a midwife, and a large number of 
persons who had theretofore patronized the said plaintiff 
in her said business and profession ceased to do so, and she 
was exposed to much odium amongst her neighbours for 
having by her alleged inhuman conduct afforded a serious 



i66 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

argument for the passing of a perpetual Coercion Act for 
Ireland." 

Not merely through Great Britain, but round the world, - 
the news ran of the approaching trial between the Chief 
Secretary and the midwife. But the Chief Secretary, much 
to the disappointment of the laughter-loving public, 
managed to escape the crowning absurdity of a trial in the 
courts. 

An application was made on his behalf that the action 
should be dismissed on the ground that the words com- 
plained of, having been spoken in Parliament, were, whether 
true or false, absolutely privileged. An enormous Bar, 
including the two law officers of the Crown, were retained at 
the public expense to fight the battle of the Chief Secretary 
against the midwife. For three long days we solemnly 
argued the case. At one stage it looked as if the midwife 
would have the best of it. A pretty clear intimation was 
conveyed to the advisers of the Chief Secretary that if he 
did not amend his affidavit judgment would go against 
him. At this he was disposed to sulk at first, but thought 
better of it. The second affidavit was made, and the Chief 
Secretary had a hairbreadth escape from the infuriated 
midwife. The case is elaborately reported to the extent of 
twenty full pages in the official Irish Law Reports, where the 
joint names of the Chief Secretary go down to posterity 
together as a leading authority on the law of Parliamentary 
privilege. 

It is, however, only fair to remember that during his 
stormy career in Ireland, Mr. Balfour conferred one great 
boon on the country which almost entitles him to rank with 
Sir Walter Raleigh as a public benefactor. If Sir Walter 
introduced the potato, Mr. Balfour introduced golf to 
an appreciative people, and both grew and flourished 
with an amazing rapidity and vigour in the congenial 
Irish soil. 

Before Mr. Balfour's coming the very name of golf was 
unknown. I recall with shame that the game was ridiculed in 
the columns of United Ireland, and the name "Mr. Golfour" 
regarded as a term of reproach. The few votaries who first 



THE HUMOURS OF COERCION 167 

followed his lead and formed the Royal Golf Club of Dolly- 
mount, with their caddies and their bags of queer-looking 
clubs, were subjected to merciless ridicule. Nationalists 
stood out for a long time against the game, but, one by one, 
myself among the number, they yielded to its inexplicable, 
irresistible fascination. To-day there is no town in Ireland 
that hasn't its golf club. Dublin is one of the most en- 
thusiastic golf centres in the world. I could count over 
thirty golf clubs in full swing within a radius of a dozen 
miles of the Irish metropolis. 

For all golf is a great game ; for elderly people like myself 
it is the only game. It not merely affords enjoyment, but it 
enforces exercise and fresh air which the doctor can only 
prescribe. When Irishmen are tempted to recall with 
bitterness Mr. Balfour's regime, they should never forget 
they are indebted to him for the priceless benefaction of 
golf. 

Amongst its by-products it is brightening the day of rest 
and effecting its redemption from the thraldom of black 
black. At first all golf clubs were closed on Sunday, now 
they are all open. It was in the intermediate period that 
Mr. James Campbell, k.c, taxed by some Sabbatarian 
electors of Trinity College with playing golf on Sunday, set 
up his standard of geographical morality, and declared he 
never played near Dublin, and in the country only when 
he required rest from arduous labour. 



CHAPTER XVII 
THE PARNELL SPLIT 

Parnell's first speech, stumbling and incoherent — Growth of eloquence 
and power — An unrivalled leader — The O'Shea scandal — Meeting in 
Leinster Hall — The storming of United Ireland — Insuppressible, 
a one-man daily paper — Founding the National Press — Capturing 
the Freeman's Journal. 

COERCION in Ireland slowly collapsed. Everywhere 
it is ridicule that kills ; but this is essentially true in 
Ireland, where the sense of humour is so strong. Not merely 
in Ireland, however, but in England, too, as the by- 
elections showed, the tide was flowing strongly in favour 
of Home Rule for Ireland. No one doubted that at the 
next election Mr. Gladstone would return to power with a 
majority that would completely overawe the House of 
Lords. Home Rule seemed perfectly safe, v\^hen, as so often 
happened in the history of the Irish movement, a crushing 
blow fell from a wholly unexpected quarter. 

Charles Stewart Parnell was at the time in a position of 
unexampled power in Ireland. O'Connell himself never 
held such unquestioned sway. He had created an Irish 
party, rigidly disciplined and full of fighting force, and held 
it together in the stress of a tremendous conflict. His popu- 
larity was enhanced a hundredfold by the failure of the 
cowardly attack of The Times. 

It is not my intention to enter into a detailed account of 
the rise and fall of Parnell as an Irish leader. Certainly no 
one from the opening of his career could have anticipated 
its zenith or its close. Of qualities supposed to be typically 
Irish he had none. A Protestant landlord, cold, shy and 
reserved, and at first almost inarticulate, he seemed to 
labour under a disabling handicap for an Irish political 
career. 

i68 




Photo hy Mavll and Fox, London. 

Charles Stewart Parnei.l 



THE PARNELL SPLIT 169 

In the General Election of 1874 he decided to stand in 
the National interest for his native county of Wicklow, but 
being at the time High Sheriff of the county he was officially 
incapacitated from becoming a candidate, and the Govern- 
ment refusing to permit his resignation — an almost unheard- 
of act of discourtesy in modern political warfare — he had 
to abandon his purpose. A month later the appointment 
of Colonel Taylor as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster 
in the newly formed Conservative administration created a 
vacancy in the County of Dublin. Although it was a forlorn 
hope to fight a seat in the then condition of the register, the 
National party felt bound to contest it, if a suitable candi- 
date could be found. 

Mr. Parnell offered himself, and to a hopeless fight was 
added a hopeless candidate. Almost my first task as a 
reporter on the Freeman's Journal was to report this young 
landlord Nationalist, whom nobody at the time took 
seriously. In a large experience I never before or since 
heard a poorer speech. 

After the usual preliminary canters by the chairman and 
routine speakers, the candidate rose to address the meeting. 
" Mr. Chairman and gentlemen," he said, " I wish to offer 
myself as a candidate for your county. I desire to represent 
your county in Parliament. I feel it would be an honour to 
represent your county in Parliament, and therefore I have 
come forward to offer myself as candidate for your 
county." 

Throughout his voice was faltering and his words con- 
fused, and after this brief and striking exordium he hesitated, 
stood silent on the platform for one long minute and sat 
down. This was the man who afterwards proved himself 
so cogent a debater in the House of Commons, and such a 
master of the feelings and passions of his audience on a 
platform. 

Only a few years afterwards I heard him deliver in the 
market square in Galway one of the most powerful platform 
speeches that I have ever heard. It was there he fastened 
on Mr. Forster the nickname of " Buckshot," which stuck 
to him to the hour of his death. There were people who 



170 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

thought Parnell cold. I could never think so. He lacked, 
indeed, the blaze and smoke of the flamboyant orator, but 
there was a calm, intense white-heat of earnestness in his 
words that, in my mind, was far more effective. The con- 
trast between his break-down in North Dublin and his later 
triumphs was as complete as the contrast between Disraeli's 
collapse in the House of Commons and his subsequent 
mastery of that assembly. 

My early impression of Parnell is confirmed by Judge 
Adams in an account given by him of his first meeting with 
the Irish leader. 

" One day in the 'seventies," he wrote, " I happened to 
drop into the reporters' room of the Freeman office. I found 
there one of the staff who had been detailed to report a 
meeting in the country. He had missed his train and inter- 
cepted the principal orator, who was dictating his speech to 
him. This gentleman at once attracted my attention. He 
was young, good-looking, of aristocratic appearance, and 
talked with the accent of an English University man. He 
was, in short, a ' swell.' But the speech had nothing of the 
' swell ' about it. In a strange, halting way he was dictating 
a violent, aggressive and fighting speech on the Nationalist 
side. 

" I left the ofhce without discovering who the orator was, 
and dismissed the incident with the thought that here was 
another of those young men of family who have occasion- 
ally fluttered round the national flag, but who soon retreated 
to seek some more congenial sphere. I little thought that 
I had seen for the first time that day a man who was to 
rank in the history of the nineteenth century with Bismarck 
and Gladstone, Lincoln and Cavour, a man so important 
that an event in his domestic life was to divide a united 
nation, to profoundly affect the fate of parties and the 
course of politics, and to be discussed with interest in every 
corner of Christendom." 

When I next met Mr. Parnell he was the leader of the 
Irish people, and had already begun to assert his supreme 
authority in the party and the country. It was on the 
occasion of the selection of a National candidate for the 



THE PARNELL SPLIT 171 

County of Galway. There was a strong objection, especially 
among the priests, to the candidature of that sterling 
Nationalist, Matt Harris, whom Mr. Parnell was determined 
should be selected. The priests, as was their custom, held 
a meeting before the convention, and they honoured me by 
unanimously nominating me for the Tuam Division, for 
which Matt Harris was a candidate. I declined the honour. 
Afterwards the convention was held, Mr. Parnell pre- 
siding. In my whole life I never saw anything finer than 
the force and dexterity with which he bent the stormy 
assembly to his will, and secured at last, alike from 
priests and people, the unanimous nomination of his 
candidate. 

Some days later a message was conveyed to me by 
William O'Brien from Parnell that a seat elsewhere was at 
my disposal, if I desired to enter Parliament. It was a 
tempting offer, but I saw no way of supporting myself in 
London, so my poverty, and not my will, refused. 

My last meeting with Parnell was under very different 
circumstances. For some years political gossip had been 
busy with the mysterious periodical disappearance of the 
Irish leader, often when his presence was most needed. The 
rumours took more definite form when he planted Captain 
O'Shea on the electors of Galway in defiance of the protest 
of Messrs. Biggar and Healy. 

Still, despite those vague and fitful warnings, the pro- 
ceedings in the O'Shea and Parnell divorce case came like 
a thunderbolt on the people of Ireland. 

Their first impulse was, naturally, to rally to their leader, 
especially as he was bitterly assailed by the Coercionists. 
Nationalist Ireland felt like Moore's reckless heroine, who 
sang : — 

I know not, I care not, if guilt's in thy heart, 
I know that I love thee whatever thou art. 

At that time I was in sole charge of United Ireland. 
William O'Brien and John Dillon, with others of the party 
evading a Coercion conviction, slipped away to France in a 
fishing-boat, and thence to America, and were engaged in 
a triumphant mission on behalf of the Irish movement. 



172 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

I felt my responsibility deeply, for United Ireland led 
National opinion in Ireland, and I was sorely puzzled in 
what direction it should lead. 

From the first I realized that my duty was to the nation, 
rather than to the leader whose conduct had imperilled the 
movement entrusted to his charge. But at the outset it 
seemed that Ireland could be best served by the defence of 
Pamell and the maintenance of his leadership. A great 
meeting had been arranged in the Leinster Hall, Dublin, 
in support of the evicted tenants, whom Mr. T. D. Sullivan 
finely described as the " wounded soldiers of the land 
war." 

This meeting was at the last moment turned into a 
demonstration in favour of Mr. Parnell's leadership. The 
speech of the night was delivered by Mr. T. M, Healy amid 
uproarious applause. I never heard, even from him, a speech 
more pungent or more powerful. " Mr. Parnell," he de- 
clared, amid tremendous cheering, " was not so much a 
man as an institution, an institution that must be preserved 
at any cost." There was sound wisdom, he declared, in the 
nautical injunction, " Don't speak to the man at the wheel." 
The resolution in favour of Mr. Parnell's leadership was 
unanimously carried, and a few days later he was unani- 
mously elected by the party, only one man, Mr. J. Jordan, 
even hinting that an explanation of the divorce-court pro- 
ceedings might be desirable. 

Naturally, I took the same line in United Ireland. Alluding 
to the outcry that was raised by the Coercionists, Lord 
Salisbury at their head, I wrote that " Ireland refused to 
throw him to the English wolves who were howling for his 
destruction." The phrase was afterwards embodied by 
Mr. Parnell in his manifesto. 

But the day after his election by the party came the 
news that Mr. Gladstone had declared that his position, 
with which Home Rule was bound up, would be a nullity 
if Mr. Parnell retained the leadership of the Irish party. 
By some fatality this view, conveyed in a letter to Mr. 
Morley, was not communicated to the Irish party before his 
re-election, in the mistaken hope that Mr. Parnell would 



THE PARNELL SPLIT 173 

voluntarily retire. On hearing of it, the Irish party in- 
stantly reconsidered their hasty decision, and after a stormy 
discussion, protracted over several days, they, by an over- 
whelming majority, deposed him from the chair and elected 
the vice-chairman, Mr, Justin McCarthy, in his room, with 
a committee of six to assist him. Their view was endorsed 
by the American delegates, including John Dillon and 
WilHam O'Brien. 

I do not propose to reopen that fiery controversy, of which 
the ashes are still smouldering. Looking back on it, each 
side may find much justification for their opponents to 
which they were blind while the conflict still raged. I shall 
touch only on the incidents in the controversy in which I 
was personally involved, and which may not be without 
interest when the history of that stormy period comes to 
be written in detail. 

In United Ireland I followed the majority of the party 
and obeyed the specific instructions cabled by William 
O'Brien. Personally I was perfectly convinced of the 
wisdom of their action. A declaration from the Catholic 
hierarchy made it plain that Parnell's leadership must 
alienate their support. In the first editorial in United 
Ireland I wrote under the heading " Ireland or Parnell ? " : 
" There is but one sentiment that can master the fidelity 
of the Irish party to their great leader — fidelity to their 
great cause. He has strong claims on them ; Ireland has 
stronger. If Home Rule is to be helped by his leadership, 
he must stay ; if Home Rule is to be hurt, he must go." 
I went on to show, in the words cabled to me by William 
O'Brien, that Parnell's leadership " meant destruction for 
the Irish movement." 

Again the following week I wrote a succession of editorials, 
opposing on various grounds Mr. Parnell's continued leader- 
ship. 

But meanwhile Mr. Parnell had rapidly realized the im- 
portance of United Ireland in the battle that was to be 
fought, and determined at all hazards to capture it. In 
the small hours of the morning, having concluded my pro- 
tracted work in the office and left the paper ready to go to 



174 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

press, I returned to my house in Great Denmark Street for 
a few hours' sleep. 

I was roused by a message, by whom deUvered I have 
never ascertained, that Mr. Parnell was at the office. Re- 
turning with all speed, I found Mr. Parnell and a number of 
his followers, including Mr. Pierce O'Mahony and Mr. Leamy, 
in possession of the editor's room. 

Mr. Parnell looked pale and weary, but resolute as ever. 
In a cold, passionless tone he told me he was much dis- 
satisfied (and no wonder !) with the last issue of United 
Ireland, and as one of the principal proprietors and 
directors he felt it necessary to dismiss the editor for 
having neglected to submit the leading articles to his 
revision. 

I replied that I had not hoped that the last issue of the 
paper would please him, and that I could not recognize his 
authority nor accept his dismissal. I was there, I said, as 
the deputy of William O'Brien, whose instructions I had 
obeyed. Since its foundation William O'Brien had acted 
as founder, conductor, and editor and proprietor of the 
paper, and had repeatedly been made responsible for 
it under the Coercion Act. I had never heard of Mr. Parnell 
in connection with the paper, and I would acknowledge no 
authority but Mr. O'Brien's. 

Mr. Parnell declared he had the legal right, and I replied 
that that remained to be proved. 

Thereupon Mr. Parnell, who had grown more excited as 
the discussion proceeded, shouted : 

" I now dismiss you, and order you to leave ! " 

I again replied : "I decline to leave, unless compelled by 
legal process or overwhelming force." 

At that he called out to one of his friends : " Send for 
Mr. Glancy!" 

Mr. John Glancy, who was then sub-Sheriff of Dublin 
and a violent partisan of Parnell's, arrived on the scene 
leading an excited mob, who surrounded me with threaten- 
ing shouts and gestures. " Throw him out ! " they cried. 
" Pitch him downstairs ! " and for a moment I thought I 
would make my exit through the window instead of the 



THE PARNELL SPLIT 175 

door, and did not at all relish the look of the spiked area 
railings below. Turning to Mr. Pamell, I said : 

" This answers the description of ' overwhelming force,' " 
and I walked to the door. 

To my surprise and delight the crowd made way for me, 
and I was allowed to pass out unmolested. After I had left, 
one of the clerks in the office, a powerful fighting man 
named O'Dwyer, wrenched the leg from the stool on which 
he was sitting, and shouting, " Here's Tipperary ! " held 
back the mob until I was safe in the street. 

Later on my friend Father Healy summarized the incident 
by the apt scriptural quotation : 

" And the lot fell on Matthias." 

Mr. Parnell and his friends promptly seized the issue of 
United Ireland that was ready for distribution in the office 
and destroyed it. 

But some copies escaped their hands, and, assisted by 
Mr. T. M. Healy and Mr. William Murphy, I succeeded in 
producing a facsimile issue next day under the title 
Suppressed United Ireland. 

Then followed the strangest newspaper enterprise in 
which any man was ever involved. It was determined to 
reprint in the Irish Catholic office a daily edition of 
Suppressed United Ireland. The printing machine was one 
of those old-fashioned affairs with tapes and pulleys that 
flaps the paper down on the type, turns it like a pancake 
and flaps it down again, printing first one side and then the 
other. I was the entire literary, editorial, and managerial 
staff of this new daily. 

At an early stage an injunction was obtained from the 
Vice-Chancellor against our printing the paper as United 
Ireland. My vote for disobeying the injunction and 
going to prison as the easiest and most effective answer 
was overruled, and the issue was continued as **Insup- 
pressible," a title borrowed from a cable of William 
O'Brien's. 

It was the toughest job I ever tackled. No money would 
pay for the work I did, and I was paid none. For the 
greater part of the time, as I have said, I was the entire 



176 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

staff of a daily paper ; but towards the end I had in the 
reporting department the able and zealous assistance of 
Mr. H. O'Connor, a host in himself. 

During the three weeks the paper lasted I worked steadily 
sixteen hours a day — real hard work at high pressure. 
Newspaper writers will understand when I mention that 
with my own hand I wrote daily in leaders and paragraphs 
a full newspaper page of editorial comment. In addition 
I superintended the distribution of the paper, which was 
" published " at my private residence, where all correspond- 
ence was addressed. Insuppressible was probably the only 
newspaper ever published for which the demand exceeded 
the supply. The clumsy printing press, working all day and 
night, could not turn out the papers half fast enough for 
clamouring readers in town and country. I have still piles 
of telegrams from newsagents: "Send me five hundred 
copies." " Send me a thousand copies." " Send me the 
latest date you can." " Send me any date." There were 
no "returns." 

When, later on, I was anxious to preserve a bound file of 
this remarkable paper I had the utmost difficulty in pro- 
curing the requisite copies. 

The strain told on my health, though the excitement kept 
me going, I could not sleep without narcotics, which, to 
guard against a special craving, were varied each night. 
During the three weeks I lost a stone and a half of my weight, 
and I had one very singular experience. Coming from the 
office for a brief spell to attend a special meeting of the 
committee of a new organization, " The National Federa- 
tion," started by Insuppressible, I was discussing some 
question of policy with Mr. William Murphy and Mr. 
Healy when suddenly, as if something snapped in my brain, 
I dropped down in a dead faint on the floor. I awoke as 
suddenly as I fell, picked myself up and resumed the con- 
versation where it had broken off, unconscious of the break. 
Three times this happened before they packed me home with 
a friend in a cab. A few hours' sleep pulled me together ; 
there was no leisure to get knocked out, for Insuppressible 
must come out as usual next morning. 



THE PARNELL SPLIT 177 

A telegram from Boulogne from William O'Brien luckily 
put an end to Insuppressible before Insuppressible put an 
end to its editor. Honestly, I am convinced it was a choice 
of the paper's death or mine, and I am glad the paper was 
the victim. From all parts of the country came urgent 
entreaties to continue, and generous promises of financial 
aid, but I was having none. 

The National Press, a well-organized, perfectly equipped 
paper with capital at its back, after a brief interval, followed 
Insuppressible as the organ of the Nationalist majority 
opposed to Mr. Parnell, and I was invited to become 
chief leader writer on the new paper. The prospect did not 
attract me. I had had a full dose of newspaper drudgery, 
and was anxious to get back to the easier and pleasanter 
work of the Bar. But my colleagues were urgent, the fight 
still raged, and it was impossible for me to drop out without 
the appearance of desertion. So once again Fate flung me 
back into a newspaper office. 

I shall not readily forget the first issue of the National 
Press. It is an exciting business, the bringing out of a new 
newspaper. The whole staff, of which Mr. Healy was a 
member, watched in the grey dawn the printing of the first 
issue. As the huge cylinder of paper began to revolve and 
the broad, white ribbon was whirled into the machinery to 
drop out on the far side, " Tip, tip, tip," quicker than a 
man could count, neatly printed and folded newspapers, 
Mr. Healy exclaimed : 

" This is the winding-sheet of Parnellism ! " 

My work of leader writer on the National Press was not 
exactly easy, but it was mere idleness compared with my 
experience on the Insuppressible. 

About this time I had an interesting and encouraging 
proof that my work had not been wasted. The Nationalists 
of Liverpool were good enough to entertain me at a public 
banquet with the flattering assurance that Insuppressible 
had held the movement together in that town during the 
first strain of the Parnell controversy. 

The National Press was eventually amalgamated with the 
Freeman's Journal, which had come round to the same 



178 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

view, and the National Press staff went over bodily to 
take direction and possession of the amalgamated news- 
paper. 

Mr. Healy triumphantly declared we " had captured the 
Freeman in the open sea and put a prize crew aboard." 



CHAPTER XVIII 
PARLIAMENT 

A lively Irish election — Hard fight in North Roscommon— Speeches under 
fire— Blockade and rescue — A fight for a platform — " The Boy "—Per- 
sonation a fine art — A pleasant surprise — Miscounting the votes — 
A narrow win — ^M.P. 

A LITTLE later I will have something to say of my 
experience as the chief writer on the Freeman's 
Journal, but first let me tell as briefly as I can how I came 
to enter Pariiament, and what I saw and heard during my 
sojourn for a single memorable session in the British House 
of Commons. 

The tragic death of Mr. Parnell did not quench the 
Parnell controversy ; it was still raging fiercely at the next 
dissolution of Parhament, and the Parnellites prepared to 
contest the seats in which they conceived there was even an 
off-chance of success. Amongst the few seats they made 
certain of winning, the most certain, in their view, was the 
constituency of North Roscommon. Nowhere was loyalty 
to Parnell more fervent, nowhere was the indignation 
against his " betrayers " more fierce. It was naturally hard 
to find a candidate to lead this forlorn hope against the 
Parnellite in that division. 

Mr. Healy urged me to take the field. I protested that 
my home was in Dublin, I had a wife and family to support 
and no money to spare ; while, on the other hand, I had 
an insuperable objection under any circumstances to accept 
salary from the Parliamentary fund. 

" Don't bother about that," he retorted ; " there is not 
the ghost of a chance of your winning the seat. All that is 
wanted is to put up a good fight." 

So I went into the contest as a forlorn hope, not expecting 
to win, and at the outset not wishing to win. But before 

179 



i8o RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

I was half-way through the spirit of the fight seized me, and 
I would have given my right arm for victory. 

I have told the story of that exciting contest, with a little 
artistic exaggeration, in one of my novels, " White Magic," 
but perhaps some of the most curious incidents are worth 
repeating with the exaggeration stripped off. 

My popular opponent, the veteran James O'Kelly, fought 
a desperate fight. By an extraordinary alliance all the 
Unionists and all the extreme Nationalists were on his side. 
Our meetings were attacked by violent crowds, and many 
of my speeches were delivered under a fusillade of stones. 
Throughout the contest I always carried a blackthorn, and 
all my followers were similarly equipped. Sometimes in 
the morning before sallying forth I would tap my head 
lightly with the knob of the shillelagh, and try to fancy what 
the blow would feel like with the whole strength of a strong 
man's arm behind it. 

Very early in the fight I noticed one figure that was never 
absent from any of my meetings — a tall, broad-shouldered, 
clean-limbed young fellow with the strength and activity 
of a tiger, who was known to local fame as " The Boy." 
When I made a point that pleased him, he would leap three 
feet into the air and wave his blackthorn over his head with 
a shout of approval that did a speaker's heart good to hear. 

Boyle, the chief town of the division, was my head- 
quarters, though in Boyle, as in the other towns of the 
division, the majority was Parnellite. The nomination day 
at Boyle was chosen for a trial of strength between the 
parties. Both sides posted up green placards inviting our 
friends to " assemble in their thousands," and both sides 
concluded with the national prayer, " God save Ireland." 

But the Parnellites contrived at the last moment to steal 
a march on us. What country contingents they could 
collect they brought in quietly the night before the nomina- 
tion, armed them from an arsenal of blackthorns in the 
suburbs, completely captured the town, and took forcible 
possession of the platform we had erected for our meet- 
ing. From early morning they paraded the streets, inviting 
us to come out and be beaten. About noon I made a dash 



PARLIAMENT i8i 

for the court-house to lodge my nomination paper, and by 
a miracle got back without a scratch. The day went by 
slowly. Both parties had fixed two o'clock as the hour of 
the meeting, but there seemed little prospect of our side 
fulfilling our engagement. 

Our opponents whiled away the time by parading in 
front of the hotel in which I was imprisoned, cheering for 
Parnell and groaning for " the traitors." That was hard 
enough to bear, but it was worse still when they were all 
drawn away to the platform in the market-place — our plat- 
form — to make ready for their meeting, leaving the streets 
wholly deserted. 

Sitting at the window of the hotel, I was suddenly aware 
of a faint sound in the far distance. A mere palpitation of 
the air it seemed at first, something to be rather felt than 
heard. Gradually the sound grew in volume, like the dull 
boom of the distant sea or the even tramp of marching feet. 
Nearer it came, and I heard the deep roll of many drums 
slightly flavoured with the shrill shrieking of the fifes. 
Listening with all my ear, I caught the tune at last, the fine 
old Irish air "The wearin' of the green." 

Half a dozen friends, who were sitting round as disconso- 
late as myself, leaped to their feet, and shouted, " The boys 
are coming ! " 

The head of the procession came sweeping round the 
corner of the street like a huge serpent whose hinder bulk 
still wound far out along the country road. 

They cheered vigorously as they passed the hotel and, in 
the pause that followed the cheer, again the faint tramp 
and distant drums were heard from a different quarter, and 
another and a larger crowd came pouring in. 

When the approaching crowds caught sight of each other 
their cheers broke out like thunder from the threatening 
clouds. I heard my own name called by a thousand voices, 
and gladly sallied out from my hotel. 

Forthwith we marched forth in united strength to re- 
capture our own platform and overthrow the Parnellites, 
but were met by a double row of policemen drawn across the 
slope to keep the hostile crowds apart. 



182 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Standing on a chair in front of the police, the magistrate 
in charge, pale with excitement, began reading the Riot Act, 
but his voice was drowned by a savage cheer. A shower of 
stones came over the heads of the police from the Parnellites 
on the hill, and in a moment I found myself in the midst of 
a charging crowd that broke headlong on the opposing line. 

Luckily for us the police were only half in earnest. A 
volley of Mr. Forster's " merciful " buckshot at the moment 
would have cost a score of lives ; not a shot was fired. Half 
a dozen drew their dirks, but for the rest baton met black- 
thorn. The din was tremendous as wood rattled against 
wood. I saw " The Boy " push on right in front of me into 
the thick of the melee, strong and active as a young panther. 
His shillelagh flew like a flail, and at every stroke a police- 
man went down. Through the centre of the line he broke 
his way, and was almost clear of the police when he was 
stabbed by a dirk in the thigh, and at the same moment 
whacked on the head with a baton. He tumbled under the 
feet of the charging crowd, whose weight and impetus broke 
through the police as a ship's prow breaks through the 
waves, scattering them on either side. The Parnellites 
stood their ground gallantly, but our crowd, outnumbering 
them three to one, flooded the market-place, sweeping all 
before them. 

When I came to myself I was standing on the platform 
on the top of the slope, with a great sea of faces stretched 
out below. I was out of breath, and clutched my black- 
thorn so hard that the knobs hurt my hand. While I spoke 
there were " excursions and alarms " between the opposing 
forces. The police, with splendid impartiality, kept the 
Parnellites back as they had tried to keep us back at first. 
But now and then a stone from over their heads came 
clattering on the platform, followed by angry rushes on the 
outskirts of the crowd. 

As I came down from the platform, when the speaking was 
over, someone told me "The Boy" was "wishful to have 
a word " with me. 

I found him lying on a sofa, his long legs protruding over 
a chair at the end. There was a great reddish blotch on 



PARLIAMENT 183 

his trousers at the thigh where the dirk had struck, and the 
hnen with which his head was bandaged showed stains of 
the same rusty-brown. His face was as white as the Hnen 
cloths, and his blue-black eyes were brighter and blacker 
from the ghastly pallor. 

He tried to rise when he saw me. " Glory be to God," 
he said in a voice in which there was no trace of weakness ; 
" but we swept them fine, police and all ! " 

" My poor fellow," I answered, " I'm afraid you are 
badly hurt." 

" There is no call to pity me, sir," he answered cheerily. 
" I was hurted in a good cause. Sure, if I was kilt in a 
good cause, what harm ? I wish you good luck and God- 
speed, your honour. I fear there is small chance of me 
being out again till the battle is won with the blessing of 
God. But there is no use grumbling. Didn't I get my full 
share of all the fun that was going ? " 

Contrary to the advice of the more prudent of my friends, 
I determined on the polling day to make a final round of 
the constituency and visit the principal polling booths, and 
I chartered a fast horse and outside car with a plucky driver 
for the perilous tour. 

Political opinion was curiously and sharply divided 
through the division. In one district they were nearly all 
friends ; in the next they were nearly all enemies, with 
always an insignificant minority to keep the enthusiasm of 
the majority at boiling-point. At one village I was received 
with a whirlwind of welcome, to find my opponents hemmed 
away in a corner like a flock of sheep shepherded by the 
police. At another village, not five miles distant, I was 
driven out under a storm of " boos " and a shower of stones. 

Frenchpark, a small town in the very heart of the Par- 
nellite district, I found in complete possession of the enemy. 
Luckily there was a friendly and fearless magistrate, 
Captain McTiernan, with a strong force of police in charge 
But the police had quite enough to do to keep the peace in 
the streets, and the Parnellites had it all their own way in 
the polling booths, where every official was a partisan and 
personation was carried to a fine art. The commonplace, 



i84 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

unenterprising personator is content to take upon himself 
the name of the voter who is absent or dead. Here the 
bolder and more ingenious artist assumed the identity of 
one of my supporters and voted against me. This was, of 
course, a double-barrelled shot, by which a vote was lost 
for me and gained for my opponent. I encountered in the 
town several disconsolate supporters who bitterly com- 
plained that the Parnellites had " trespassed on their 
names." 

For an hour or so I went about from booth to booth 
trying to secure some semblance of fair play for my friends. 
More than once a stone from the booing crowd whizzed past 
me so close that I felt the wind of it on my cheek. Before 
dark a clean sweep was made of the register. Every name 
on it was polled out, though a full fifth of the owners of 
those names were in England, America or their graves. The 
personators did their work thoroughly in Frenchpark ! 

All day the excitement had been simmering hotter and 
hotter until, towards evening, it came to boiling-point. The 
news which reached us late in the afternoon that the Parnell- 
ites had captured three Dublin divisions drove the Parnellite 
crowd in Frenchpark mad with delight, and at the closing 
of the polling booths their pent-up energy was turned loose 
into the streets. Naturally, I was the first object of their 
attentions. A stone sent my hat flying under the feet of 
Captain McTiernan, who, as he picked it up and handed it 
back to me, called out in a loud voice : 

" I will order a baton charge to clear the streets." 

But I begged him to do nothing of the kind. I had, I must 
confess, a sneaking regard for those thoroughgoing Parnell- 
ites, who abhorred me as a " traitor to the dead chief " and 
dealt with me accordingly. Zeal in a wrong cause is better, 
anyhow, than apathy in a right one. 

" As I am the only stumbling-block to the peace," I said 
to the magistrate, " I'll clear out as quickly as I can." 

" I must honestly confess," he said in a low voice, " I 
should be glad to see you out of the town before dusk. The 
police have charge of your driver and car, and I'll have 
them brought to you here." 



PARLIAMENT 185 

The car was brought up at a run, the driver cracking his 
whip defiantly in the face of the crowd. I jumped on with- 
out stopping it, and we fled helter-skelter out of the town 
under a volley of stones which rattled against the car as 
our parting salute from Frenchpark, 

As we got clear of the town the driver laid his whip 
sharply over the flank of the horse, who broke into a fast 
trot, and we bumped along at the rate of twelve miles an 
hour. But at a turn of the road the horse was jerked up 
so suddenly that I almost went over on my head. Right 
in front of us, not two hundred yards away, the road was 
black with a great crowd of men, waving blackthorns and 
advancing steadily. 

" What's best to be done now, sir ? " asked the driver, 
" There's a good few of them in it." 

I noticed he had quietly shifted his whip in his hand. 
The thong was coiled round his wrist ; the loaded butt 
swung free, 

" Back or forward, sir ? " he said. " Give the word." 

We were fairly caught in a trap. To turn back to French- 
park was even more dangerous than to go forward. 

" Drive slowly," I said, " until we are within forty yards 
or so, then get your rug over your head and try to break 
through." 

As we moved on cautiously the crowd stood stock still 
waiting our approach. It was too dark to distinguish the 
men's faces, but there was a determined look about the 
crowd that I did not at all enjoy. 

We were close up, making ready for a rush, when suddenly 
a thundering cheer broke out : 

" Hi for Bodkin ! " they yelled, " Hi for Bodkin ! " 

Never did I so rejoice in the sound of my own name. 

Everything was plain in a moment. My own crowd had 
come out from Boyle to protect me. They had heard that 
I was " hurted within in Frenchpark," one of their leaders 
explained, and they were going in "to see about it." It 
was with the greatest difficulty that I dissuaded them from 
marching straight on into the enemy's stronghold. 

At ten o'clock the next morning the counting of the votes 



i86 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

began behind locked doors in the court-house. I was, I am 
free to confess, feverish with excitement. Having entered 
into the campaign solely on the hope and assurance of a 
sound beating, I was prepared to regard defeat as an in- 
tolerable disgrace. My veteran opponent, James 0' Kelly, 
who had faced dangers unmoved in every quarter of the 
globe, was as excited as myself. His face was as white as 
one of the ballot papers, and he twisted his moustache with 
nervous fingers. We had been good friends in the old days, 
but now we shook hands as formally as prize-fighters in 
the ring. 

The counting began. First the papers were emptied out 
from all the ballot boxes in one huge pile on the great table 
that ran down the centre of the room. Then twenty counters 
set to work, opening, examining them and ranging them into 
piles of a hundred each, O' Kelly on one side of the table 
and Bodkin on the other, while the candidates and theii 
friends watched as closely as a cat watches a mouse. By 
slov/ degrees the big heap of ballot papers grew smaller and 
smaller, and the little heaps spread wider and wider over 
the table. 

At first, I remember, I seemed to have it all my own way. 
Nine out of every ten of the ballot papers had a cross after 
my name. I thought I was going to have a walk over. 
Then O' Kelly had his innings, and his name was called out 
again and again with irritating monotony. 

The great pile dwindled down to a few scattered papers, 
and was at last completely absorbed in the regiment of 
smaller heaps which were arranged symmetrically on either 
side of the table in long columns, like the figures in a big 
sum of simple addition. There was an incomplete bundle 
at the end of each regiment — seventy-four for C Kelly, 
twenty-six for me. The sheriff ran his eye up and down the 
columns, counting carefully ; and I tried to do the same, 
but the long lines wavered before my eyes. " The same 
number of hundreds on both sides," the sheriff said at last 
" O' Kelly wins by the odd votes. Forty-eight majority-- 
a close shave. I congratulate you, Mr. O' Kelly, on a hard 
won victory." 



PARLIAMENT 187 

My heart sank till it seemed to leave a void in my breast. 
I looked round at the blank faces of my friends who had 
fought so hard. Beaten, after all ; I was sick and weak 
with disappointment, and leant against the table, or I must 
have fallen. 

The sheriff was half-way across the room when one of my 
friends tugged at my arm. 

" He's wrong, sir," he whispered, " he's wrong. He has 
counted one of O' Kelly's bundles twice over." 

The sheriff's hand was on the door knob when I called 
out, " Stop ! " And he looked round impatiently. 

" I believe there has been a mistake, Mr. Sheriff," I said. 
" Will you kindly count the bundles again ? " 

" Certainly," he answered politely, " with pleasure." 

This time I counted with him. At the first counting I 
repeated his error, the second I discovered it. One of 
O' Kelly's bundles had got out of the plumb-line and was 
counted in two columns. 

The sheriff at once admitted his mistake. " Bodkin by 
fifty-two votes," he said. 

I had won the closest contest in the election, and I was 
a political prisoner in the House of Commons until the 
dissolution. 

With the joy of victory in my heart I bolted from the 
court-house door through the great crowd, booing and 
cheering, to the nearest telegraph station, and forwarded 
to the person most concerned in the election a wire con- 
sisting merely of my name with the coveted letters attached. 

I must risk being trite and tedious in my brief record of 
my parliamentary experiences ; but there are many details 
of parliamentary life and procedure that become so familiar 
to the Member that he forgets they are new and possibly 
interesting to the outside public, so they never find their 
way into books. With those details a few pages of parlia- 
mentary gossip may be fairly filled. 

The first indication of the imperial importance to which 
I had attained came in the shape of letters from the illus- 
trated papers requesting the favour of my photograph, 
which nobody outside my own family had previously de- 



i88 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

sired, and of pressing invitations from house agents to rent 
palaces at anything up to £10,000 a year. 

Meanwhile, I was anxiously considering how I could make 
both ends meet on a few hundreds. My savings from the 
Bar were small, and my entrance to Parliament meant that 
for the greater part of the year I should live in London 
while my family lived in Dublin — an increased expenditure 
and a diminished income. In reply to the question, how 
far my absence would reduce the household expenses, I was 
informed : "It may make the difference of five shillings a 
week, but I don't think it will." 

Living in London was, however, much cheaper than I had 
expected. The Kitchen Committee of the House of Com- 
mons caters for the poor man as weU as for the rich ; and 
comfortable lodgings can be had at a reasonable cost within 
measurable distance of the House. 

A Member of Parliament of simple tastes, who makes up 
his mind, as I did, to dispense with all luxuries, including 
alcohol and tobacco, and take all his meals except breakfast 
within the precincts of the House of Commons, can be fairly 
comfortable on £150 a year. 



CHAPTER XIX 
EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH M.P. 

The House — The first sight of Mr. Gladstone — Turning out a Government 
— The young lawyer Asquith — " Unparalleled in the records of political 
apostasy " — Dr. Tanner as cup-bearer — Introduction of Home Rule — - 
Intense excitement — Competition for places — Triumph of Gladstone. 

BUT it was not until I got to London, it was not until I 
had walked down the first day to Westminster, that 
I realized the full magnitude and importance of my position. 
When I reached the corner of the crossing facing the 
Members' private entrance, I was not a little perplexed at 
the stream of traffic that flowed between me and Palace 
Yard. While I stood irresolute on the curbstone, like a 
timid bather hesitating before his plunge, a poHceman 
close beside caught sight of my hesitating figure. 

" A Member, sir ? " he said. 

I nodded. Instantly a stalwart arm was raised and then, 
to my amazement, the miracle of the Red Sea was repeated. 
The traffic was arrested in mid-channel, pawing horses, 
impatient cyclists, lumbering vans lined up across the 
street, and in front was a passage for the newly made 
Member for North Roscommon. 

The Member of Parliament's precious old-world privileges 
of eluding his creditors and franking his letters have been 
abolished, this poor remnant alone remains : the traffic 
which blocks his way to the discharge of his senatorial 
duties is always arrested on his approach. 

" Good day, sir," said the policeman, with a strong 
brogue, at the entrance to Westminster, saluting as I passed 
in in a manner at once respectful and familiar. " Most of the 
gentlemen are already down at the House, sir. Mr. Glad- 
stone has just come." 

Even as he spoke a mighty cheer arose from the crowded 



igo RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

assembly in Palace Yard, and a carriage, with an old man 
and an old lady in the back seat and a young lady and a 
child in the front, came swiftly through the gate. 

It was the first time I had ever seen Mr. Gladstone, but I 
knew him instantly from portrait and cartoon. His colour 
was creamy white, like an old carving of ivory, his eyes 
beaming with dazzling brilliancy. He was wreathed in 
smiles, and I never knew a man whose smile was more 
delightful. The very wrinkles about his eyes and mouth 
were expressive of good-humour and delight as the dimples 
of beauty. Again and again the crowd shouted its welcome 
as he passed smiling through the throng and disappeared 
into the Members' entrance to the House. 

Entering the precincts of the House of Commons, by a door 
through which under no circumstances can " strangers " be 
admitted, I found myself in a long corridor with rows of in- 
numerable hat-pegs on the wall. It was with a curious little 
shock of surprise that I discovered my own name over one 
of the hat-pegs, and under it a miniature halter of red tape 
to suspend my umbrella. By prompt application I secured 
a locker big enough to hold another hat (of whose use more 
shall be said presently) and papers and books. There are 
two Members for each available locker. It is a case of first 
come first served, and the competition is keen. 

What surprises the new Member most is to find himself so 
well known by people he has never met in a place where he 
has never been. The police and officials whom I encountered 
seemed perfectly familiar with my appearance, and I passed 
without parley into the most sacred recess of the House 
exclusively reserved for Members. 

I learned afterwards that there is a special collection of 
the photographs of the Members of the House of Commons, 
which is carefully studied by the police and officials, so that 
they meet and greet the new Members on their first ap- 
pearances as old acquaintances. Apart, however, from 
this advantage, the memory of the attendants in the House 
of Commons for names and faces is something that borders 
on the miraculous. 
There is an old story (I cannot vouch for its truth), that 




From a ^hotograplt by the Loudon Stereoscopic Co., Ltd. 

The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone 



EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH M.P. 191 

on one occasion the lights went out when the truant Mem- 
bers were crowding into the House for an important division. 
Some of the general public tried to mingle with the crowd 
who poured into the sacred precincts of the House ; but at 
the door stood the ponderous guardian of the place, a big 
and stately personage with the face and figure of a glorified 
butler, and he, recognizing his flock by their voices alone, 
separated the sheep from the goats at the entrance. 

For the first two days I wandered disconsolate about the 
long galleries and corridors of the House, on the third day 
one of the officials approached me with an extraordinary 
request. 

Addressing me by my name, although I had never spoken 
to him or seen him before, he said : "I want you to do me a 
favour." 

" With pleasure," I answered, " if it is in my power." 
" Oh, there is no difficulty about that," he said. " I 
merely desire that you will show some lady friends of mine 
over the House." 

I must say the request took me by surprise. " My dear 
fellow," I protested, " you could not possibly have come to a 
worse man than myself. I would lose myself a dozen times 
in the corridors and passages." 

" That's all right," he returned, " I will go with you 
myself and show you the way." 

" But why not show the ladies the way instead of showing 
it to me ? " 

" I cannot," he answered; "that privilege is reserved for 
the Members. You will forgive the liberty I have taken, 
but whenever the officials of the House require favours 
from the Members it is always the Irish Members they ask." 
So it came about I showed a number of charming ladies 
all round the House of Commons while it was still a per- 
plexing maze to myself ; and like many a teacher I learned a 
lot from my pupils. 

Mr. Gladstone, in spite of " the Parnell split," had come 
back with a majority of forty pledged to Home Rule. The 
first step, of course, was to expel from office the Unionist 
minority, who clung to their posts with desperate tenacity. 



192 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

It was a brilliant attack, and the magnitude of issue involved 
enhanced the excitement of the struggle. The vote of 
censure on the Government was moved by a young lawyer 
named Asquith, then first emerging from obscurity, now 
Prime Minister of England, in a fighting speech, full of 
oratorical sword-play, brilliant and pitiless. One sentence 
alone of the speech lives in my memory. He charged the 
Liberal Unionists who sat beside him in the Opposition with 
having been guilty of a " treason unparalleled in the annals 
of political apostasy." 

This phrase gave special bitterness to the debate that 
followed, and the accusation was repelled by speaker after 
speaker with a fine show of indignation. It was to the novice 
a splendid and stately drama full of interest and excitement, 
yet the concluding scene almost culminated in a farce. A 
little before midnight a pompous member of the Government, 
proudly swelling at his opportunity, with the superb self- 
consciousness of a turkey-cock, rose to close the debate. 

The spirit of mischievous schoolboys suddenly inspired 
the great Legislative assembly. The orator was a big man 
with big gestures and a very small voice. He had, it was 
often said, all the attributes of a great orator except elo- 
quence. 

As he rose to speak, the rumour ran round the House that 
two Tories had missed their trains. Every vote in the 
division was, of course, of vital importance, and the pompous, 
self-complacent orator was speaking against time. 

The rumour filled the place with instant tumult ; the 
voices of a score of quick-witted Irish tormentors played 
round the ponderous orator as swallows round a crow. 
Every sentence of his was twisted from its meaning by 
some comical interpretation, the chorus of laughter and 
applause never slackened for a moment. The unhappy man, 
tied as it were to the orator's stake and compelled to fight 
the round, alternately protested, entreated and appealed all 
to no purpose. His gestures were ample and awe-inspiring 
to the last, but his voice died slowly away to a mere husky 
squeak before the terrible ordeal was over. 

The climax came when the most audacious and uncon- 



EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH M.P. 193 

ventional Member of the Irish Party, the irrepressible Dr. 
Tanner, was seen pushing his way through the crowd at the 
Bar of the House. With a profound obeisance to the 
Speaker, he marched slowly up the floor between the densely 
thronged benches, a large tumbler of amber-coloured 
liquor held conspicuously in his right hand. The shriek of 
laughter that rent the House from all quarters made the 
orator turn at last. But when he met the bland smile of the 
mocking Ganymede, who stood with the big tumbler at his 
elbow, he almost collapsed. One imploring glance for 
release he gave his leader, who was stretching his long legs 
on the bench beside him, but with a quick imperative 
gesture the leader told him the time was not yet come, 
so the speaker went stumbling on again, helpless and hope- 
less, through the ever-growing tumult. 

Slowly the hands of the clock began to join one another 
at midnight. A hundred impatient voices shouted, " Time ! 
Time ! " and the impotent orator subsided at last. 

The Speaker rose, stately and impressive, to put the 
question on which the fate of the Government depended. 
There followed a storm of " ayes " and answering clamour of 
" noes." 

" I declare the noes have it," said the Speaker. He knew 
the ayes had it well enough, but it is the custom of the 
Speaker to declare for the Government of the day, whom, 
it is assumed, command a majority until there is proof to 
the contrary. 

" The ayes have it ! " yelled out the Liberals, and a 
division was called. 

In the confusion of the division I had almost plunged 
headlong through the door of the wrong lobby when one of 
the Irish Whips captured me by the coat-tails and put me 
right. We were packed tight as herrings in a barrel in the 
division lobby, and the crowd pushed and wedged them- 
selves one at a time through the passage. At long last I 
found myself duly ticked off by the clerks at the turnstile, 
duly counted by the Whips, and back in the House waiting 
impatiently for the momentous verdict. 

The interval seemed interminable, so great was the 



194 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

impatient tension of suspense, though hardly a minute 
elapsed until the Whips marched two by two up the floor 
of the House, the tally papers in their hands. There was 
a roar of applause when the Opposition Whips came to 
the right-hand side — a proof of victory. Then in a sudden 
hush, still as death, the figures were read — 350 to 310. The 
old Government was out and the new Government was in by 
a majority of forty. 

Later on I may have a word or two to say of what I 
learned of the tricks and ways of the House of Commons 
during a month or so of dull routine, which lasted till th 
new Government had settled comfortably into their places. 
For the present I will skip to the day when Mr. Gladstone, 
for the second time, introduced to the British House of 
Commons a measure for Home Rule for Ireland. 

As the day approached, curiosity and excitement de- 
veloped into a fever. To avoid the invasion of Westminster 
by legislators at the small hours of the morning, the Speaker 
ordained that the doors of the Chamber itself should not be 
opened before noon. The only result was to keep the 
crowd some hours longer on the wrong side of the door. 
From the very earliest dawn the lobby that led directly to 
the main, entrance of the Legislative Chamber was thronged 
to suffocation by eager and impatient legislators. At first 
there was some pretence at order and decorum. Two long 
rows of chairs stretched from the great doors right across the 
lobby with a Member seated in each; but hours before the 
time fixed for the opening excitement got the better of 
patience. The chairs were abandoned, and the great crowd 
pressed and swayed against the double row of constables 
that formed a good-humoured but insurmountable barrier 
between them and the carved doors of the sacred Chamber 
itself. For two long hours we stood squeezed tight as 
sardines in a tin, with faces set immovably towards the 
entrance, and the long wait was beguiled with good-humoured 
banter, in which " sabre-cuts of Saxon speech " were freely 
interchanged. At eleven o'clock a man came to wind the 
clock over the door, and was overwhelmed with piteous 
appeals to give the hands just one turn more. 



EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH M.P. 195 

At last, just as Big Ben boomed out twelve, making the 
air shake with the deep sound of the strokes, the double row 
of obstructive poHcemen melted away. The doors suddenly 
opened, and the tumultuous crowd of excited legislators 
went through into the solemn Chamber like a mill-stream 
when the dam goes down. 

I had done a little football in my time, but I had never 
been in a scrimmage so rough and fierce as this great 
stampede of Members that went tearing along the floor of the 
" most august assembly in the world." 

We swept Hke a drove of cattle along the passages, 
scattered and scrambled like monkeys over the benches, 
and in the twinkle of an eye there was a hat on every seat in 
the Chamber. I was lucky in the scramble, and secured a 
corner seat almost facing Mr. Gladstone's place on the 
Treasury bench opposite. By prayer-time every lane and 
alley of the Chamber was crammed as tight as they could 
hold with imported chairs, every stair of the gangways was 
claimed by a hat. 

The various galleries, however, reserved for ladies, for 
distinguished personages, and for the Peers and the general 
public were still empty. Until prayers are over no stranger 
is admitted to the precincts, but as the final " Amen " was 
pronounced by the Chaplain of the House the sound of a 
second and still more excited scramble broke upon my ears. 

Glancing to the Peers' Gallery, I was just in time to see 
the Ancient Nobility of England a confused whirl of lordly 
legs and arms, all struggling together in inexplicable con- 
fusion, tumble into the narrow receptacle the House of 
Commons provides for the peerage. 

The House settled down for a while with outward calm 
to the transaction of ordinary business, but all the time 
there was a tenseness in the atmosphere which spoke of a 
coming storm, and when at last the Grand Old Man himself 
appeared, debonnaire as a bridegroom, with a fresh rosebud 
in his button-hole, the whole place went mad once more 
with unrestrained excitement. Irish Nationalists and 
English Liberals leaped to their feet, waving their hats and 
cheering until the vast volume of sound seemed to shake 



196 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

the carved roof of the historic Chamber, which in all its 
long and varied history had never witnessed a more ex- 
hilarating scene. Then suddenly the sound died out to still 
silence, for the speech so long and so eagerly looked for had 
begun, and the greatest statesman and orator of his genera- 
tion was unfolding the details of his proposed treaty of 
peace between two nations whose bitter feud had lasted 
through seven centuries. 

His voice was low at first, but gathered power at every 
word till it filled the building, strong and pure, like the 
master tones of an organ. No attribute of an orator was, 
in my poor judgment, lacking in that marvellous speech — 
lucid exposition, clear reasoning, passionate appeal, captured 
alike the hearts and minds of his hearers. Erect, alert, 
with word and face and gesture fitted to the thought, in 
that miraculous man the vigour of youth and the dignity of 
age were marvellously combined. 

It was not in any sense a fighting speech. There was no 
attack on opponents, nothing that rasped or jarred. 

Truth the mild robe of soft persuasion wore. 
And e'en reluctant party felt awhile 
That magic power. 

Unionists were so carried away by his eloquence that 
they applauded with the Home Rulers. We lost count of 
time while he spoke. Not a man in the room, friend or foe, 
was unmoved by the thrilling earnestness of his voice. When 
he closed with a peroration of surpassing eloquence, dead 
silence followed, — the silence of strong feeling. Then cheers 
broke out unrestrained from all sides of the House. 

Speaking for one man alone, he completely captured me, 
heart and soul. The strain of enthusiasm became almost 
unbearable : I listened in a kind of ecstasy as the great 
speech drew to a close, in solemn majestic rhythm, sublime 
as the utterance of an inspired prophet ; I felt as if nothing 
could resist him, that Home Rule was already won by a 
unanimous vote. 

The moment Mr. Gladstone sat down a young Irish 
Unionist barrister, Dick Dane, a friend of my own, who had 
just come to the House, with splendid audacity sprang to his 



EXPERIENCES OF AN IRISH M.P. 197 

feet to answer him. But the Speaker looked the other way, 
and Sir Edward Clarke replied as spokesman of the Oppo- 
sition. 

There followed a general engagement, in which the big 
guns on the Front Benches opened fire in succession on one 
side or another, and a vast amount of argument and elo- 
quence was expended without changing a vote. The second 
reading of the Bill was carried by the expected majority of 
forty, and we lapsed into the dull tedium of committee, 
where the Unionists, turning the weapons of the Irish 
party against themselves, obstructed remorselessly. But 
there were none of the lively excursions and alarms of Irish 
obstruction, it was a weary, weary time of frivolous amend- 
ments, dull speeches and incessant tramps through the 
division lobbies. 



CHAPTER XX 
HUMOURS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 

"Efficacy of prayer" — The Speaker's procession — Hats — Gladstone's 
comical experience — The hard-worked — " Hear ! hear ! " — Guy Fawkes 
up-to-date — Searching the vaults for gunpowder— Socialism and 
sociality — Gladstone's surprise speech — Biggar's formula, " All real 
here, mister." 

MEANWHILE I was learning my way about the 
House of Commons, and almost my first lesson 
was concerned with the " efficacy of prayer," though 
hardly in the sense by which the phrase is understood by 
theologians. It is ordained that every sitting of the House 
is opened with prayer, and the devout attendance of the 
Members is ingeniously enforced. 

I remember well with what a shock of surprise I got my 
first peep at the Speaker in his regimentals. I was coming 
down a long corridor with a glass door at the end of it, when 
a confusion of electric bells began to ring here, there and 
everywhere all over the place. A great red-bearded police- 
man on duty just behind the glass door seemed shaken with 
convulsions, his whole body contracted for a mighty effort, 
his knees bent, his hands doubled up, his mouth opened wide, 
then all at once a roar rang through the building that shook 
the windows. 

" Speaker ! " yelled the policeman with the full force of 
his lungs. 

" Hats off, Speaker ! " came the cry from the attendants, 
and up through the long corridor there swept a procession 
that seemed to come right out of the Middle Ages. The 
Speaker himself moved at its head, stately, austere, in a big 
beehive wig and flowing black robes. Behind him came the 
Serjeant-at-Arms in antique dress of black silk and white 
lace, a sheathed rapier at his side and the huge gilded mace, 



HUMOURS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 199 

" the bauble " that Cromwell spoke of so contemptuously, 
borne on his shoulder. The Speaker's chaplain in robes 
and bands represented the spiritual element of the cere- 
monial. 

As the procession passed the cry grew more deafening. 
" Speaker, Speaker. Hats off, strangers ! " and the pro- 
cession slowly wound itself through the lobby into the 
Legislative Chamber through the carved door which closed 
behind it. 

To encourage devotion among the Members, it is arranged 
that only those who are present at prayers can secure seats 
for the day. The method of securing a seat in the House of 
Commons approaches a fine art. The early Member takes 
the early seat by planting on it his hat and a card inscribed 
with " Prayers " in big letters. But his right is established 
only until prayer-time. If he be absent from prayers, any 
more devout Member may " jump his claim," removing the 
hat and card. Prayers over, a little printed card stuck in a 
brass sconce at the back of the seat secures the rights of 
exclusive occupation till the rising of the House. 

The rule, like all rules, is liable to evasion and abuse. 
Mr. Bradlaugh's irreligious scruples were too strong to 
permit him to be present in the House at prayer-time, but, as 
I was told, he used to watch at the open door with hat in 
hand ready to pounce for a seat the moment " Amen " was 
intoned. 

It is on record that Dr. Tanner, on one memorable 
occasion in his zealous discharge of his duty as Whip of the 
Irish party, came down to the House at dawn with a cab- 
load of old hats to secure seats for his leaders. 

It is here that the spare hat in the locker came in handy. 
" One man one hat " was the rule laid down by the Speaker, 
but it was more honoured in the breach than the observance, 
and many a Member paraded the City in the forenoon with 
his best hat on his head while his second best stood sentinel 
on a seat in the House of Commons. 

The hat, I may add, plays a tremendous part in parlia- 
mentary procedure. Woe betide the incautious novice who 
wears it when he should not, or doesn't wear it when he 



200 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

should. His crime is almost as great as if he had 
passed between the speaking Member and the Speaker, 
and his horror-stricken colleagues roar "Order! Order!" 
at him as fiercely as if he had committed the unpardon- 
able sin. 

The accomplished Member of the House of Commons 
prides himself on the " nice conduct of a cloudless hat." 
The unwritten law ordains that a Member must wear his hat 
when he is sitting, and must not wear it when he is standing. 
Before a division is called it is a gross breach of order to 
address the House with hat on, after division is called it is 
just as gross a breach of order to address the House with 
hat off. 

I remember once Mr. Gladstone was himself the victim of 
the rule. The Front Bench men, ministers and ex-ministers, 
who enjoy their seats by prescriptive right, and don't need 
hats to secure them, always come bareheaded into the 
House. 

A division was called, Mr, Gladstone desired to address 
the Speaker on a point of order ; his hat was in his own 
room, the hats of his colleagues were in theirs. What was 
to be done ? A whisper ran round the benches, and from 
afar off an humble supporter of the Grand Old Man sent his 
hat to the rescue. But in the hurry there had been no time 
to pick and choose, and the hat was half a dozen sizes too 
small for Mr. Gladstone. It perched rakishly on the high, 
white dome of his head while he solemnly addressed the 
Speaker amid roars of laughter from an irreverent 
House. 

But Mr. Gladstone, I observed, did not laugh. Nor did 
he, I am sure, in the slightest degree appreciate either the 
humour of the situation or the absurdity of the rule. To him 
it was an ancient tradition of the House, and that alone was 
sufficient to secure its respectful observance. 

During my few years in Parliament I often observed with 
surprise that this very great man was a rigid stickler for 
very small observances and ceremonial. He was specially 
a martinet in regard to the rules governing the conduct of 
the House, and I have still before me, as one of the most 



HUMOURS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 201 

comical pictures I have ever seen, the grave decorum of 
face and voice with which he addressed the Speaker, balanc- 
ing that ridiculous little hat on his head with the skill of an 
acrobat. 

By an imperative custom of the House of Commons its 
Members can only express their feelings by the repetition 
of the word " Hear, hear ! " No other word is "in 
order." 

But this monosyllable, as employed in the House of 
Commons, is the most expressive word in the language. 
There is no sentiment in the entire gamut of feeling that 
cannot be conveyed by the " hear, hear " of an experienced 
Member of Parliament — admiration, approval, affection, 
enthusiasm, indignation, contempt, ridicule, all are within 
the compass of this one word. 

Humpty Dumpty in " Alice in Wonderland," who made 
any word mean exactly what he chose it to mean, had not 
more dominion over his subjects than a skilled operator 
exercises over the parliamentary monosyllable, which for 
many Members constitutes their entire parliamentary 
vocabulary. 

Apropos of this, I might mention an amusing incident 
that occurred at a later date in my experience of the 
House. 

The present Lord Salisbury was holding forth on 
School Board Education in a speech replete with tiresome 
technical statistics of attendance and expenditure. The dull 
sentences poured along like the brook, for ever and for ever. 
There seemed to be no prospect of an end to the oration. 
Suddenly an Irish Member emphasized a statement with 
regard to " two pence three farthings " with the " hear, 
hear " of rapturous approval. 

The hint was instantly taken. At the close of every 
sentence of the trite and tiresome harangue there came a 
burst of such wild and spontaneous enthusiasm as had 
never been evoked by the most eloquent peroration of Mr. 
Gladstone's. At first it seemed as though the orator fancied 
he had moved the hearts of the Members by his appeal. 
But the continued and uproarious applause slowly forced 



202 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

upon his mind the suspicion of an ironical demonstration. 
He struggled on for a few sentences, amid the ever-growing 
enthusiasm, then suddenly he collapsed and sat down in 
the middle of a sentence. 

Whatever the party in power, the House of Commons 
itself is essentially a conservative institution. It despises 
the Shakespearean warning : — 

What custom wills in all things should we do, 
The dust of antique time would be unswept. 

"The dust of antique time" is all over the place. Absurd 
old customs dating back to the Middle Ages, customs which 
have lost all meaning with the flux of years, are preserved 
in the House of Commons with all the sanctity of religious 
observances. 

I was lounging in the empty Legislative Chamber one 
morning before the House sat, when the sound of footsteps 
at the door attracted my attention, and looking round 
suddenly, I could hardly believe that my astonished eyes 
saw what they seemed to see. I was taken back again into 
the days when Charles II was king. This big, quiet Chamber 
with its wide rows of empty benches was suddenly alive 
with the figures and costumes of the reign of the liveliest of 
the Stuarts. 

A troop of " Beef -eaters," with their white tunics and 
buff breeches, coloured hose and apple-pie hats bedecked 
with variegated ribbons, moved solemnly down the centre of 
the House, and each as he moved swung from his finger an 
old horn lantern. A stately person in antique Court dress 
paced in front of this grotesque procession. For a moment 
I was unable, if I may use the expression, to place the 
performance, then suddenly it dawned on me. I had heard 
vaguely of this pageant before. It was Guy Fawkes who 
was responsible : the " Beef-eaters," according to custom, 
stretching back through many centuries, were on their way 
with dim horn lanterns to search the electric-lit cellars of 
the House of Commons for gunpowder barrels and masked 
conspirators. The absurd make-belief was conducted with 
the utmost solemnity. The mummers and the few English 
Members who respectfully followed the extraordinary 



HUMOURS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 203 

procession were grave in their demeanour as the attendants 
at a funeral, no one smiled but myself. 

By a scarcely less grotesque ceremonial, statutes which 
have made their perilous way through both Houses of 
Parhament finally receive the Royal assent and so pass into 
law. 

I have but a dim recollection of once witnessing the 
performance. There were a number of figures in wigs and 
gowns and curious robes, who moved like puppets through 
the ceremonial. One, I remember, read in a droning 
voice the title of the Act ; the other twisted sharp round, 
as if moved by clockwork, and jerked out like the bird of 
the cuckoo clock in a mechanical voice : "La reine le 
veut," and straightway the Bill became an Act of Parlia- 
ment. 

I think it is Oliver Wendell Holmes that somewhere puts 
the question whether life is a small bundle of big things, or 
a big bundle of little things. The latter would more probably 
be the description of the life in the House of Commons, at 
least during my experience ; for one lively or exciting day 
we had a week's monotony. 

The House has been described as the best club in the 
world, and in one essential it amply merits the description. 
No man dare play the snob in the House of Commons on the 
strength of his rank or his money. Over its portals might 
be written: "All 'side' abandon, ye who enter here." 
Cook's son and duke's son are on perfect equality ; and if 
the cook's son is a clever fellow and the duke's son — as 
sometimes happens — is a fool, the cook's son is courted by 
the Members and the duke's son is ignored. In the smoking- 
room especially this social freemasonry is most conspicuous. 
The man who wants a banquet and the man who wants a 
beefsteak cannot well dine at the same table. But in the 
smoking-room all class distinctions are abolished. Equality 
and geniality prevail. There the Members of all shades of 
politics and with all kinds of smoking utensils, from a half- 
crown cigar to a clay pipe, forgather on terms of perfect 
equality. In comparison with the Legislative Chamber 
the smoking-room is the Palace of Truth. Nationalists 



204 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and Unionists met there on the most friendly terms 
at the same tables. The opposition so vehement in the 
House was practically abandoned in the smoking-room. 

I remember well on one occasion, just after Mr. Gladstone's 
great speech introducing the Home Rule Bill, I asked a 
prominent Conservative, Mr. Hanbury, afterwards one of the 
ablest members of a Unionist Cabinet : 

" How would you vote if Mr. Balfour made that speech 
instead of Mr. Gladstone ? " 

" That," he answered, laughing, " is not a fair question 
even for the smoking-room," and I did not press for any 
further reply. 

Now and again, of course, the sharp stress and strain of 
party feeling dominated all personal feelings, but as a rule 
personal friendship ran in the most curious way, zigzag across 
the line of party divisions. To take one illustration, there 
was no man more popular with the Irish party than poor 
old Johnston of Ballykilbeg, and I think he reciprocated 
our friendly feeling. 

I remember he once cordially invited me to join a 12th of 
July demonstration in Belfast. " Why," I replied, " a 
papist would be killed if he showed his nose on such an 
occasion." " Not if you come with me," he answered, a 
proviso that was not wholly encouraging, and I respectfully 
declined the invitation. 

On some other occasion some chartered bore was delivering 
a long-winded oration when old Johnston suddenly, apropos 
of nothing at all, moved the adjournment of the House. 
The spirit of mischief tempted me to second the motion, 
and the conjunction so delighted the assembly, with whom 
a small joke always went a long way, that it was almost 
unanimously carried, and we broke up tumultuously like 
schoolboys at an unexpected half-holiday. 

Humour is indeed keenly appreciated in the House of 
Commons, which loves a joke however poor or small. It 
will roar with laughter if a nervous speaker collapses on his 
own hat, or an excited orator in the full fury of his eloquence 
batters the hat of a brother Member over his eyes. The 
man who, like Mr. Healy, amuses the House can do what 



HUMOURS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 205 

he likes with it, anything and everything will be for- 
given him. 

Perhaps the explanation for this craving for diversion is 
to be found in the fact that all forms of entertainment 
are rigorously excluded from the precincts of West- 
minster. 

No game is allowed except the laborious game of chess. In 
the vast library light literature is to a great extent tabooed, 
and the long monotonous rows of heavy books of reference 
have a decidedly depressing effect. No wonder Members 
wander into the smoking-room for a lounge and a gossip 
when a bore is in possession of the Legislative Chamber. 

The hete noir of the smoking-room is the division bell. 
Just as you have lit up and leant back in a particularly 
cosy arm-chair for a pleasant chat the infernal " tingle, 
tingle," is heard in all places at once, seeming to pervade 
the entire air, persistent, insistent, not-to-be-denied. 

You have to go rushing up narrow staircases and through 
long corridors to record your vote on some question, the 
merits and demerits of which you are absolutely ignorant, 
though it may chance that the very existence of the Govern- 
ment hangs upon the decision. 

Of course, you are not allowed to carry a lighted cigar or 
pipe through the division lobby, and I remember it was 
esteemed a notable feat to get through the lobby and record 
your vote in time to catch cigar or pipe still alight on the 
marble table of the smoking-room, where you laid it when 
the division bell rang out its insistent summons. 

Another drawback to the perfect comfort of the smok- 
ing room, especially when Mr. Gladstone was still in 
the House, was the feeling that lounging idly there you 
might miss something really good in the Legislative 
Chamber. 

You could never tell when that miraculous old man would 
electrify the proceedings with a matchless oration. On 
one occasion "in the mid waste and middle" of dinner-hour, 
when the Legislative Chamber was almost empty, he took 
it into his head to trounce Mr. Chamberlain, a task which he 
accomplished with unrivalled freedom and finish. By great 



2o6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

good luck I happened to be in the House at the time : I 
was one of the few who were so fortunate. The speech was 
as short as it was brilHant, and before the news had got 
abroad that Mr. Gladstone was on his legs he had sat down 
again. We who heard this wonderful speech hugged our- 
selves on our good fortune, they who missed it were loud in 
their lamentation. I met Mr. Healy a little while after in the 
lobby. 

" What did you think of that ? " he demanded en- 
thusiastically. 

" The best debating speech I have ever heard." 

" Debating speech be hanged! " he replied; " it was the 
best speech Gladstone ever made. By heaven, it was the 
best speech any man ever made." 

Towards the end of my time in the House, however, a 
device had been perfected to obviate the risk of missing such 
a treat. A wide space has been arranged conspicuously at 
the end of the smoke-room, which automatically records the 
name of each speaker as he rises to address the House. I 
used to think it gave an additional zest to the flavour of 
a cigar to see the name of some pretentious bore loom 
large across the board, and to think of the fate of the 
Speaker and the Serjeant-at-Arms who were his only 
audience. 

This is no exaggeration. Over and over again, glancing 
through the House at dinner-time, I saw the vast dreary 
waste inhabited only by three figures : the Speaker in his 
huge carved chair on the dais, the Serjeant-at-Arms in his 
little sentry-box at the entrance, and the dreary bore who 
poured out his platitudes on those two helpless victims and 
to a desert of empty green benches. 

It is not to be supposed that there are great speeches 
every night or every week, or I might even say every month. 
Apart from the interest of the place and the sense of power 
which its membership confers, the routine of parliamentary 
life is dull enough in all conscience. The largeness and 
vitality of the issues involved, however, redeem it from 
tediousness. For most men it has an absorbing infatuation, 
which, after a while, makes itself felt in spite of the mono- 



HUMOURS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 207 

tony. The late Mr. Biggar lived in the House and for the 
House, he had no other interest or amusement. It is told 
that on one occasion when his friends asked him why he 
never went to the theatre, he replied : 

"This is better than any theatre, mister. It is all real 
here." 



CHAPTER XXI 
THE RULES OF THE GAME 

Question time — Bowling and batting — The alleged poet Homer — The 
tribulations of Private Members — The count out — Labouchere's 
strong language — The all-night sitting — " Who goes home ? " — The 
devotion of Mrs. Gladstone — A touching episode. 

THERE are all sorts of unexpected interludes to 
mitigate the dulness of parliamentary life, and 
question time is specially fruitful of such interludes. 
Questions, as a rule, were not designed for the purpose of 
eliciting information. The object was generally to put the 
Minister questioned in the wrong box — to convict him or his 
department of misconduct ; under cover of a note of 
interrogation to contrive an attack on political opponents. 

Question time, to my mind, had a curious resemblance to 
a game of cricket, in which the Opposition bowled and the 
Ministers batted. There were fast balls and underhand 
twisters. Sometimes the Ministers scored heavily off the 
bowlers, sometimes their wickets were taken. The Speaker 
was umpire, and called " No ball " — I mean " Order ! 
order ! " — if an irregular question was delivered. We used 
to have a good deal of quiet fun occasionally at this game, 
when a single question developed into a catechism, before 
the Speaker could effectively interpose. 

On one occasion Mr. Johnston, of Ballykilbeg, whose 
comic bigotry was a source of perennial amusement, objected 
in the form of a question to the use in primary schools of the 
book containing Moore's song, " Row, brothers, row," on the 
ground that its allusion to " saints of our own green isle " 
inculcated the worship of saints. 

Before the Minister could reply I popped up with a 
supplementary question. 

" Is the right honourable gentleman aware," I asked, with 

208 



THE RULES OF THE GAME 209 

a face as grave as a mustard-pot, " that in the intermediate 
schools and universities they require the study of an alleged 
poet named Homer, who encourages the worship of Jupiter, 
Juno, Venus and other objectionable personages ? " 

" Order, order ! " cried the Speaker smilingly. " I am 
afraid that question savours of ridicule." But the up- 
roarious laughter of the House told me that I had scored. 

I was specially delighted with the face of Mr. Gladstone, 
right opposite where I sat. He gave a little start of dismay 
at the sacrilege of "an alleged poet named Homer," but 
when he caught the point of the question his whole face 
wrinkled with laughter. 

Another source of much enlivenment in the House were 
the vagaries of " private Members " who desired to enshrine 
their special hobbies in the Statute Book. The " Private 
Members' Bills," as they are called, are subject to the most 
stringent regulations. The objection of a single Member 
blocks the Bill at any stage. No debate, no discussion is 
allowed ; the Speaker passes at once to the next item on the 
programme. 

No one that has not witnessed it can realize the humour of 
the proceeding. To a private Member his Bill is as precious 
as an only child to a doting mother. He seems to fondle it 
in his arms. There is a tremor of anxiety in his voice as 
he strives to advance it a stage towards the triumph of 
enactment. Then an enemy, often close beside him, gets 
up, and with the fatal phrase, " I object ! " seals its fate for 
the night. A few words of gentle expostulation are at- 
tempted, generally without effect, and the private Member 
resumes his seat, still sadly fondling his unhappy off- 
spring. 

It was particularly amusing to see the cynical Mr. 
Labouchere as one of the chief actors in this little comedy. 

Mr. Labouchere had a private Bill called, I think, the 
" Chimney Sweepers Protection Bill," for which he evinced 
a more than maternal affection. Night after night it was 
blocked by a Mr. Bolton, for whom Mr. Labouchere enter- 
tained an unmitigated hatred and contempt. One night, 
however, in an unhappy moment he attempted to propitiate 



210 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

the enemy. He made a humble appeal to Mr. Bolton in which 
he described the innocence and beauty of the Bill, but Mr. 
Bolton retorted with the sternly repeated " I object ! " 

Thereupon Mr. Labouchere's temper got the better of 
him, and he retorted " You to blazes ! " in a voice audible 
to everyone in the House, except (apparently) the Speaker, 
who took no notice of the incident or the shriek of laughter 
that followed. 

A " count out " is a kind of practical joke much esteemed 
by legislative humorists, especially as the result is an 
unexpected holiday. It generally comes off on what was 
called " private Members' nights," when the House resolves 
itself into a kind of debating society, and private Members 
who were lucky in the ballot get an opportunity of airing 
their pet fads. On these occasions the House usually 
emptied itself out to the dregs. Then some malevolent 
Member would call the attention of the Speaker, who would 
never notice it of his own accord, to the fact that there was 
not a quorum of forty present. 

A few minutes' grace was allowed, however, " to make a 
House." The contest was keen between those who wanted 
and those who didn't want an adjournment, and Members 
were encouraged or obstructed on their way to the Chamber. 
It was especially amusing on those occasions to watch the 
crowds of " counters out " skulking just outside the official 
range of the Speaker's eye. On some occasions Members 
with a pet hobby to exercise were known to entertain a 
dinner-party of forty Members on the premises, who were 
expected in return for food and wine to "keep a House" 
for their entertainer. 

The kitchen of the House of Commons needs its subsidy 
of a few thousand a year, for it is a restaurant that can 
never count its customers beforehand. A sudden " scene " 
may unexpectedly detain a few hundred Members to dinner, 
a " count out " may send as many intending diners scurry- 
ing off to their own homes. 

Under these circumstances it is not to be wondered that 
the commissariat department occasionally breaks down. I 
remember on the occasion of one of the few all-night 



THE RULES OF THE GAME 211 

sittings in which I participated we were compelled to 
support fainting nature on hard-boiled eggs and bread 
and cheese. 

I came into the House of Commons at a time when, 
apart from the large issues involved, it was especially dull 
and trying for an Irish Member. The Tories had all the fun : 
they were playing the lively and exciting game of obstruc- 
tion. Our daily duty was to sit silent and vote. Every 
word spoken was a trespass on the time of the House, which 
the Government regard, and rightly regard, as their most 
valuable asset. I used to look back with envy and regret 
on the good old days of lively Irish obstruction, when the 
enemy were in power and when the longer an Irish Member 
spoke, and the oftener, the better he deserved of his party. 

Even our all-night sittings were poor and tame in com- 
parison with the strenuous old days, when the floor of the 
library was strewn with sleeping Members, like soldiers in an 
encampment ready at the battle-call to spring up and rush 
into the fray. 

We occasionally sat up all night discussing interminable 
trivialities, dreary as " a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear 
of a drowsy man," and welcomed with enthusiasm the shout 
of a score of policemen " Who goes home ? " which announces 
the fall of the curtain on the night's performance. The 
shout itself is reminiscent of the days when the footpads 
that frequented the streets of London made going home a 
service of danger, and Members herded together for mutual 
protection. In modern days, however, the shout is but a 
warning to the vast array of vehicles, of all shapes and 
sizes, with which Palace Yard is thronged, to carry off 
the weary legislators to bed. 

The scene, as I crept wearily out from the dim light and 
stuffy air of the House into the pure freshness of the dawn, 
was a new revelation of the truth and beauty of Words- 
worth's exquisite sonnet : — 

This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning : silent, bare. 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie 
Open to the fields and to the sky. 



212 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

The river glideth at his own sweet will. 
Dear God, the very houses seem asleep. 
And all that mighty heart is lying still. 

The wide space of Palace Yard at such times was a perfect 
wilderness of prancing horses, whirling vehicles and flashing 
lights. 

Necessity is the mother of innovation. I could not afford 
even the cheapest vehicle to carry me to my distant lodgings, 
so I was the first to introduce the humble bicycle into this 
aristocratic society. My example was followed by many 
others. Even Mr. Balfour for a time, before the advent of 
the motor, condescended to the bicycle. But at first 
mine was the solitary bike amongst the wilderness of 
vehicles, and I remember well the pleasure with which I 
jumped upon my lowly steed, gave the whole glittering 
procession a lead up the smooth wooden pavement of 
Whitehall, and out-distancing them all stole swiftly and 
silently through the silent streets to my lodgings in the 
suburbs. 

The House of Commons, if it is the best club, is assuredly 
the most ungallant assembly in the world. Nor have its 
temper and character been improved by recent feminine 
invasions. The gallery reserved for ladies is, as everyone 
knows, narrow, dark, and fenced with a close brass grating 
that suggests the harem of an Eastern potentate. 

I have been to the Ladies' Gallery, of course, many times, 
and can vouch for it that it is only possible to see through 
the narrow opening of the grating angular sections of the 
faces of the speakers in the House below. The reason of this 
caging up of the ladies has never been made quite clear, but 
the generally accepted explanation is that the full and 
unrestricted glare of feminine charms in the gallery behind 
the Speaker's chair, to which all eyes are necessarily turned, 
would dazzle impressionable Members and distract them 
from the business in hand. 

Instigated, doubtless, by feminine complaint, many 
objections have been taken by the Members of the 
House to the retention of the grating, but the conserva- 
tive vis inertia which in the House of Commons opposes 



THE RULES OF THE GAME 213 

itself to all change, reasonable or unreasonable, has pre- 
vailed. 

I remember on one occasion, instigated by a charming 
young lady, I questioned Mr. Herbert Gladstone, then 
President of the Board of Public Works, on the subject 
across the floor of the House. With deprecating eye cast 
sideways towards the Ladies' Gallery, Mr. Gladstone regretted 
his inability to have the grating removed. When I met him 
afterwards in the smoking-room he protested against the 
invidious position in which my question had placed him, 
and volunteered as a compromise to provide me with a 
pickaxe and crowbar and every facility for removing it 
myself. 

Before I pass from the subject of the grating, there is one 
little curious incident that I desire to recall. Standing at 
the door of the House one day, I noticed that a small patch 
of the lattice-work of dull brass shone like burnished gold. 
Some time afterwards I asked an attendant if he could 
explain the reason. 

" That," said he, " is the place where Mrs. Gladstone sits 
to watch the Grand Old Man whenever he has a big speech 
to make. She rests one hand on the grating and the friction, 
as you see, has worn it bright." 

Often afterwards, from the floor of the House, when the 
old man was speaking, I watched the eager face of his wife 
in her accustomed place close to the grille with one hand 
resting lightly on the grating. 

There seemed to me something wonderfully touching in 
love that survives through more than half a century : — 

That feeling that after long years have gone by 
Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth; 
What e'en though the flush of the colours may fly, 
The features still live in their first smiling youth. 

Indeed, the one fault I have to find with Viscount Morley's 
Life of Gladstone, is that Mrs. Gladstone fills so small a place 
in the work, when in the real life she filled so large. Old 
Boswell would have been more human and more gallant. 

Uncomfortable as is the Ladies' Gallery, the competition 
for seats, especially on a gala night, is wonderfully keen 



214 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Each Member is (or was, before the coming of the suffragettes) 
permitted to put a Httle folded docket containing his name 
into a ballot-box, entitling him to two seats in the Ladies' 
Gallery. The papers are drawn by the Serjeant-at-Arms, 
and places are allotted in order of precedence to the success- 
ful balloters. 

I remember a schoolboy trick of ours was to fold up the 
ballot papers with as many angles and corners as possible 
in hopes that it might arrest the finger-tips of the impartial 
Serjeant-at-Arms. 

The popularity of the Ladies' Gallery was largely due to the 
fact that a seat there almost invariably involved in the 
summer-time a tea on the Terrace — one of the most delight- 
ful and popular of the social functions of London. 

The Terrace of the House of Commons is, as everybody, 
or nearly everybody, knows, a vast platform stretching along 
the Thames, where pleasure-boats and barges go gliding 
slowly by, 

The invasion of the Terrace by ladies is a modern develop- 
ment, to which some crusty old bachelors of the House at 
first strongly objected. To meet their objection a small, 
railed-off portion was reserved for " gentlemen only " ; but 
the ridicule they encountered when they sought the seclusion 
of this pen soon led to its removal, and the whole Terrace 
became the happy hunting-ground of the ladies. 

In the season it was crowded with the rank and fashion 
of London, the whole space dotted over with tables on which 
tea, coffee and strawberries were liberally provided. 
Occasionally, too, ladies dined with Members in specially 
reserved rooms, but the rooms so reserved were amongst 
the smallest and dingiest of the building and were bespoken a 
week in advance. 

Still, a dinner in the House of Commons was, in spite of 
all these difficulties and discomforts, or perhaps because of 
them, a coveted dissipation. 

Among many disabilities the ladies had, however, one 
exclusive privilege. Beside the inner door of the Legislative 
Chamber there is a nook of about two feet high which looks 
in through a glass window upon the Members. Ladies, 



THE RULES OF THE GAME 215 

accompanied by a Member, were privileged to stand there 
for a couple of minutes at a time and have a clear view of 
the Chamber and its occupants, which was impossible from 
the Ladies' Gallery. This was a privilege to which no male 
outsider was allowed, 

I believe the freaks of the suffragettes have caused it to 
be wholly abolished. After an ultra-enthusiast had taken 
advantage of the opportunity to burst through the swinging 
doors and race up the floor of the House shouting, " Votes 
for Women ! " the Speaker decided he would take no risks 
for the future. 



CHAPTER XXII 
THE TERRORS OF THE HOUSE 

A maiden speech — Called to order — Chamberlain and the Lords — Queen 
Anne and Queen Victoria — A misconception — An unparalleled scene- 
Herod and Judas — The fight on the floor — A general scrimmage- 
Members come to fisticuffs — The beginning of the end. 

VERY terrifying is the atmosphere of the Legislative 
Chamber to a new Member, It inspires a strange 
feehng of awe from which even the most audacious is not 
exempt. I have heard that Mr. Healy, when httle more 
than a boy, on his very first night in the House, attacked 
Lord Hartington in a speech of superb vituperation. But 
he was the single splendid exception. The antiquity of 
the House of Commons, the splendour of its traditions, the 
power of which it is the repository, completely overawes the 
novice. He enters with fear and trembling, he shrinks from 
notice, he trembles at the sound of his own voice. This I 
take it is the cause why so many great orators break down 
in their maiden speeches. For the first few weeks a little 
nervous shiver ran down my back as I stole to my seat, and 
the mere thought of speaking took my breath away. 

My own voice had a strange hollow sound when I asked 
my first question in the historic Chamber. But I resolved 
to speak, and did early in the session, though it must be 
confessed that my maiden speech was a most embarrassing 
and disappointing performance. I carefully got my thoughts 
together, but having a speech ready and being let fire it off 
are two different things in the House of Commons. Half a 
dozen times one evening I popped up, hat in hand, to catch 
the Speaker's eye, and each time, in cricket parlance, I 
muffed the catch. I had an uneasy feeling of the comicality 
of the performance, and had almost determined to give up 
when my chance came at last. The Speaker sang out my 

216 



THE TERRORS OF THE HOUSE 217 

name in resonant tones. My heart gave a great throb and 
then ceased beating as I rose to address the House. 

" Mr. Speaker," I began in the orthodox form, and was 
astounded by a sudden interruption. 

" Order, order," cried the Speaker, and skipping out of 
his chair departed for his tea. Then the House emptied 
rapidly, and I was left waiting alone in a very fever of 
nervousness for the Speaker's return. The clock itself 
seemed to have taken an interval for refreshment, for the 
next twenty minutes, to my impatient imagination, slowly 
stretched out to two hours. At last the Speaker returned, 
but only the Speaker, misguided Members preferred their 
dinners to my oratory, so my maiden speech was delivered 
to the Chair, the Serjeant-at-Arms and a wilderness of 
empty green benches ; my jokes fell flat on irresponsive 
vacancy, and my careful peroration turned to pure 
burlesque. 

As a novice I naturally flew at high game. Mr. Chamber- 
lain was then the pet aversion of the whole Irish party, and 
against Mr. Chamberlain my maiden speech was directed. 
I made fun of his declaration just before the General 
Election that Home Rule was as dead as Queen Anne. I 
was surprised, I said, that the right honourable gentleman 
thought it worth his while to take part in the debate. H 
Home Rule was as dead as Queen Anne, there was nothing 
to be gained by its dissection. But I rather thought that 
he and other Unionists would find, in the words of the 
immortal Mantalini, that Home Rule was " a demmed 
uncomfortable corpse." If Queen Anne was as much alive 
as Home Rule was, it would be a blue look-out for her 
Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria. I quoted Goldsmith at 
portentous length to illustrate his relations with Mr. 
Gladstone : — 

The dog and man at first were friends. 

But then a pique began. 
The dog to gain some private ends 

Went mad and bit the man. 
But soon a wonder came to light, 

To show the rogues they lied. 
The man recovered from the bite, 

The dog it was that died. 



2i8 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Finally I had the almost unique, if unenviable, experience 
of being called to order by the Speaker in my maiden 
speech. I repeated Mr. Chamberlain's description of the 
House of Lords, in what he afterwards called " his Radical 
days." 

" I am rather thankful than otherwise to gentlemen who 
will take the trouble of wearing robes and coronets and 
keeping up a certain state of splendour which is pleasing to 
look on. They are ancient monuments, and I for one would 
be very sorry to deface them. But I do not admit that we 
can build on those interesting ruins the foundation of our 
government. I cannot allow these venerable antiquities " 

Here the Speaker pulled me up abruptly, but I had the 
satisfaction of explaining that the words objected to were 
Mr. Chamberlain's, not mine, and I was quite content when 
he retorted that they were not words that could be used in 
the House of Commons. 

There was a curious sequel to my allusion to Queen Anne 
and Queen Victoria. Next night a card was sent to me, 
and in the Lobby I was greeted by a handsome and superbly 
groomed young man, who explained that he was the Hon. 
Secretary of the " White Rose League," and claimed me 
as an adherent of the Stuart queen. 

Once I had got my maiden speech off my chest my nervous- 
ness rapidly vanished. Familiarity with the House of 
Commons if it did not breed contempt, at least dissipated 
terror. I learned to loll at my ease on the sacred green 
benches, I no longer trembled at the sound of my own voice, 
and found it an easy matter to chip into a debate whenever 
I felt so inclined. 

It was my good (or bad) fortune to be present at the 
wildest scene, and the fiercest, ever witnessed in the 
House of Commons since the day when Cromwell with his 
Ironsides broke into the Legislative Chamber, scoffed at 
Sir Harry Vane and ordered the soldiers to " remove that 
bauble " — meaning thereby the venerated mace. 

It was the night when Mr. Gladstone had determined to 
cut his way through a mass of dilatory amendments to the 
third reading of his Home Rule Bill. For many months 



THE TERRORS OF THE HOUSE 219 

the measure had been openly and systematically obstructed 
by the Opposition with an infinite number of devices. 
Finally Mr. Gladstone preferred his indictment against 
obstruction, and it was sentenced to the guillotine. When 
the fateful night of the execution arrived the air of the place 
seemed electric with the passions which had been aroused. 
Once again the House was crammed to its utmost capacity, 
seats were engaged twelve hours in advance, and for the 
unwise legislators who had not taken their precautions 
beforehand, only standing room was available ; benches, 
floors and galleries were all densely crowded. 

The debate was animated from the first, but waxed in 
passion and fervour as it proceeded. Cheers and counter 
cheers roared across from the opposing benches like broad- 
sides in a naval battle ; hotter and hotter grew the temper 
of the House, while the hands of the clock crept slowly 
round to the fatal hour of twelve when the guillotine must 
fall. 

In the very height of this seething excitement Mr. Chamber- 
lain — slim, sleek and neatly groomed, with a star of white 
orchid in his buttonhole — rose to conclude the debate. His 
voice was smoothly modulated, his words carefully chosen, 
he spoke with precise deliberation, but there was a sting 
in every pointed sentence that pricked the fiery passion of 
the House like a spur to a high-mettled and over-excited 
steed. At last the climax came. With mockery and malice 
in his soft tones, he insinuated insulting comparisons 
between Mr. Gladstone and Herod, quoting the appalling 
description in the Scriptures of the downfall of the Jewish 
king. 

At the first uttering of the word " Herod," the storm of 
passion broke loose among the followers of Mr. Gladstone, 
and the answering cry of " Judas ! Judas ! " came back 
from a score of voices hoarse with rage, the dominating 
tones of Mr. T. P. O' Conner heard plainly above the 
tumult. There followed a scene without parallel in the 
British House of Commons. 

Mr. Chamberlain had plainly anticipated the storm. 
He reserved the attack on Mr. Gladstone to the peroration 



220 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

of his speech, and just as the hour hand of the clock touched 
the allotted hour he dropped into his seat, smiling sardonically 
at the tumult he had evoked. 

The Chairman of the House rose to put the question, in 
compliance with the motion already passed, but his feeble 
voice was drowned in the all-pervading din. On the Tory 
benches was seen the figure of Mr. Vicary Gibbs, bareheaded, 
waving both arms wildly and shouting in dumb show a 
frantic appeal to the Chair, but no word was heard. Mr. 
Vicary Gibbs dropped into his seat, clapped his hat on his 
head, as the quaint rule to which I have already alluded pre- 
scribes, and continued to yell an inaudible protest through 
the tumult. After the prescribed pause, the question was put 
again, as before, in dumb show and amid the continuing 
storm, and the House was directed to clear for a division. 

At this the Tory fury broke out in open rebellion to the 
authority of the Chair. The members of the Opposition 
clung to their seats and yelled in frantic defiance. So far 
the violence was of voices only, but not for long. We who 
had passed out into the division lobbies in obedience to the 
direction of the Chair were recalled by the tumult in the 
Chamber, and trooped back to discover the cause. Close 
beside me at the time was a Liberal Home Rule Member, 
Mr. Logan, who like myself was surprised on his return to 
the House by the strange spectacle of the Tories still glued 
to their seats and yelling furiously. While I took my place 
among my colleagues, to wait results, Mr. Logan's curiosity 
drew him towards the centre of the excitement. 

On the front Opposition benches, however, he was met 
by a furious cry of " Order ! order ! " for it is a technical 
disorder for any Member not addressing the Chair to keep 
his feet in the House of Commons except behind the Bar. 

" I will put myself in order," he answered obligingly, and 
dropped down into the vacant seat of the Leader of the 
Opposition. 

That was the signal for violence. The Tories flung them- 
selves upon him in front and rear, and tried to hustle him 
from his place. Mr. Fisher (then private secretary to Mr. 
Balfour) was the most violent in the attack. The Irish 



THE TERRORS OF THE HOUSE 221 

Members rose to a man at the sight of a scrimmage and 
moved in the direction, impelled so far rather by cmiosity 
than by anger, but the pressure in the rear pushed those in 
front across the gangway into the Tory territory. The 
Tories leaped up to repel the boarders. Colonel Saunderson, 
with an Irishman's readiness for a fight, led the assault, 
and striking out fiercely with clenched fist met the un- 
offending Mr. Austin in the face. 

The next moment Mr. Crean struck back as fiercely ; 
the blow caught Colonel Saunderson under the jaw with a 
dull thud that resounded through the House and sent him 
sprawling among the benches. All at once the passion that 
lies in every man's heart — the wild, mad, animal passion of 
fight, which civilization may stifle but cannot extinguish — 
flared up in a fierce blaze. Staid legislators yelled and struck 
and fought like corner boys. 

From the galleries the spectators, leaning forward, hissed 
furiously at the degrading scene. 

The thing was so sudden that I found myself in the very 
heart and heat of this tumult before I could clearly realize 
what it all meant. But across the floor of the House, 
beyond the fierce mass of struggling men, I had a glimpse of 
the pale, pathetic face of Mr. Gladstone. Now, for the first 
time, he seemed old to me — old even beyond his age — and 
haggard with humiliation, for Mr. Gladstone loved the 
House of Commons, and its honour was dear to him as his 
own. 

For a moment it seemed as if the whole assembly must be 
swept into the heart of that growing tumult. Strangely 
enough, it was on the Irish benches the peacemakers were 
found. I saw several men, whose passion made them ir- 
responsible, held forcibly down by more peaceable colleagues. 
Two Irish Members stretched strong arms across the gangway 
between the Irish and Orange benches, and held the he- 
reditary foes "apart ; but still the fight raged, though less 
fiercely, on the floor of the House, when all at once the 
rumbling tumult ceased in deadest silence and something 
like awe fell upon the assembly. I turned round, surprised 
and startled, to find the cause of this sudden peace, and 



222 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

found it. The feeble Chairman of Committees had dis- 
appeared, and the stern Speaker of the House had come back 
into the Chair. Resolute and masterful his clear voice rang 
through the tumult, enforcing obedience. Explanations 
were made and apologies were offered. In ten minutes all 
traces of the unparalleled storm, which had for a brief space 
swept away its traditions, disappeared, and the House cleared 
for a division. 

I remember well a little incident which occurred as I 
moved out with the rest. Excited and forgetful, by reason 
of the scene which I had witnessed, I unconsciously set my 
hat on my head before I reached the bar. Instantly a cry 
of " Order ! order ! " was raised by Members round me, and 
an attendant at my elbow whispered, " Remove your hat, 
sir, remove your hat," in a tone of horror as if a sacrilege 
had been committed in a sacred place. Then I knew for 
certain that ceremonial and convention had reasserted 
themselves, and the House of Commons was itself again. 

After months of wearisome obstruction the great night 
came at last when the third reading of Mr. Gladstone's Home 
Rule Bill was carried in the Imperial House of Commons. 

All day there was a curious strain and restlessness that 
is ever the herald of a great event. An undercurrent of 
impatience ran through the applause with which the stirring 
speeches were heard. On the closing night of the great 
debate the highest flight of eloquence was reached, but even 
the highest eloquence could not hold the attention of the 
Members, who crowded the House from floor to ceiling, 
eager to come to close quarters in the division lobby. 

At last the final struggle was over. The tellers, four 
abreast, pushed their way through the throng up the floor 
of the House of Commons and stood ranged in front of the 
Speaker's chair. It was a moment of the profoundest 
silence, the most intense excitement ; every man in the great 
assembly held his breath to listen ; all felt that a turning- 
point in the history of the two nations had been reached, 
and awaited with awe-inspired silence the verdict of the 
Imperial Parliament in favour of Ireland's freedom and 
nationality. 



THE TERRORS OF THE HOUSE 223 

The instant the figures were announced the pent-up 
excitement broke loose. The hopes and longings of years 
were in the cheers that pealed again and again from the 
Irish benches, whilst the Unionists held their seats silent 
and dismayed. 

Dizzy with delight and triumph I passed from the heat of 
the House into the cool night air. The excitement within 
had overflowed into the streets, a vast wild throng had 
gathered in Palace Yard waiting the verdict, and when the 
verdict came it evoked a universal enthusiasm. Englishmen 
and Irishmen grasped hands in fellowship and congratulation 
at the ending of the long feud of centuries. All at once some- 
one in the crowd struck up " The Wearing of the Green," 
and it swelled up to the night skies in a mighty chorus in 
which the Cockney accent and the brogue were strangely 
blended. As I whirled homeward on my bicycle past 
Trafalgar Square I still heard the distant roar booming 
through the night air, and I felt that the solemn promise of 
that great night could never be effaced. 



CHAPTER XXIII 
FRONT BENCHERS 

"The Grand Old Man "—Gladstone unrivalled — Universal genius — "All 
proud of him " — " Before he dies " — His sprint in the Lobby — Never 
an "orthodox Tory" — "The Slogger " — Lawyers and Members — 
Morley and Sir Henry James — Asquith — Lloyd George. 

MY brief sojourn in the House of Commons has left me 
vivid recollections of many remarkable men. Amid 
those pictures Gladstone stands alone. It is hopeless to try 
to explain the fascination of the man. He towered over 
all the rest by head and shoulders ; he was at once the 
youngest and the oldest member of Parliament : the oldest 
according to the deceptive testimony of the calendar, the 
youngest in an almost boyish eagerness and vivacity. You 
never knew the moment when he would start a brilliant 
surprise on the House. Sometimes he brightened the dull 
tedium of the dinner-hour with a brilliant flash of oratory 
that brought Members hurrying in from their half-finished 
meal ; sometimes on an outside subject, raised on what I may 
call the ' ' off nights ' ' devoted to private Members, he appeared, 
radiant, with a red rose in his button-hole, to contribute a 
lively little speech to the enlivenment of a dry, academic 
debate. 

He lent to the place the light and animation of genius, 
he provided the Members with a succession of brilliant 
surprises. In every form of parliamentary service he was 
not merely great, but the greatest. Of his eloquence there 
is no need to speak. In a set speech he was absolutely 
overpowering, obstacles and opposition melted away before 
that full torrent of close reasoning and irresistible appeal. 
But in answering a question across the floor of the House, 
in a quick interruption, in untying a parliamentary knot, 
in chaffing a prosy speaker, in recovering a reverse in debate, 

224 



FRONT BENCHERS 225 

and turning a defeat into victory, the adroitness of the old 
parhamentary hand was supreme. 

I have heard it said that Gladstone had no sense of 
humour ; my experience gives the lie to that calumny. I 
never heard anything more delicately humorous than his 
playful badinage of Mr. Jesse Collings, or more caustically 
humorous than his trenchant attacks on Mr. Chamberlain. 

His adroitness in debate was almost miraculous. Once in 
his absence the ministerial benches got into a muddle over 
an amendment proposed by the Opposition. The amend- 
ment was one that should have been accepted at the first, 
but the Government, having once committed themselves to 
refusal, doggedly persisted in opposing it. 

Mr. Sexton, in a brief speech, tried to help them out of the 
slough into which they had plunged, but they would not be 
helped, and they were still floundering when Mr. Gladstone 
came suddenly on the scene and plumped down in his usual 
place between Mr. Morley and Sir William Harcourt. From 
my seat on the other side of the House I saw him rapidly 
collect, apparently from both men at the same time, a brief 
summary of what had gone on in his absence. 

It took him no more than three minutes to grasp the 
situation, and when Mr. Balfour sat down after an extremely 
effective speech, in which he had bantered the Ministers to 
his heart's content, Mr. Gladstone rose to reply. 

He began with a brilliant attack on the Opposition, ridi- 
culing the speakers and speeches on the other side. He 
declared that Mr. Balfour had " envenomed the debate." 
Then under cover of this attack he proceeded to change the 
position of the Government. He paid a graceful compliment 
to Mr. Sexton. 

" I myself," he said, " have been much influenced in 
my judgment by the speech of the honourable Member 
for Kerry." Thereupon the Opposition shouted their 
derision. 

" What ! " exclaimed Mr. Gladstone indignantly, " will 
you not allow me to be influenced by an Irish Member, even 
when he influences me in favour of your own conten- 
tion? You yourselves, I notice, are sometimes influenced 



226 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

by the right honourable Member for West Birmingham. 
Not, I would assume, from any inveterate love of the 
individual." 

The shot went home, for at that time Mr. Chamberlain 
was not popular on the Tory benches, and amidst the 
laughter that followed Mr. Gladstone carried the Government 
safe out of their untenable position, with drums beating 
and banners flying, and with such brilliant assumption of 
triumph that the retreat seemed a victory, and Members 
of both sides of the House applauded the tactics of the 
veteran. 

"Tell the Grand Old Man," I heard Mr. Balfour say 
when he met Mr. Morley behind the Speaker's chair after 
the division, " tell him from me that we are all proud of 
him." 

An interruption is often most effective in the House of 
Commons, though a quick-witted speaker will occasionally 
counter the interruption with a deadly retort. The most 
effective thing of the kind that I remember during my 
experience was Mr. Gladstone's interruption of Mr. Chamber- 
lain. 

It is the practice of the House of Commons that the 
speaker shall allude to the Members who agree with him as 
his " honourable, or right honourable, friends," and the 
Members who differ from him as the " honourable, or right 
honourable, gentlemen." 

At the time Mr, Chamberlain was in a somewhat difficult 
position ; he had practically left the Liberal party, but he 
had not joined the Tories. The Liberals were his " right 
honourable friends," because he was still nominally of their 
party ; the Tories were his " right honourable friends," 
because he was acting and speaking with them. The result 
was confusing. His speech, whether in reply or approval, 
was interlarded with allusions to " his right honourable 
friends " on both sides of the House. " I approve of my 
honourable friend's views," he would say in one sentence, 
and " I repudiate my right honourable friend's views," he 
would say in the next. 

Mr. Gladstone saw his opportunity. Suddenly jumping 



FRONT BENCHERS 227 

to his feet with an air of eager but innocent curiosity, he 
exclaimed : 

" Which of his right honourable friends does he allude to ? 
The right honourable gentleman has so many." 

A roar of applause completely disorganized Mr. Chamber- 
lain. The sting of the interruption lay in the fact that he 
had at the time hardly a friend on either side of the House. 

Mr. Gladstone's venerable youth was a subject of constant 
comment in the tea-rooms, smoking-room and lobbies of the 
House. It used to be jokingly observed that he had suc- 
ceeded in turning the corner, that he was coming back the 
other way, and that in fifty or sixty years more he would 
be at Eton, playing cricket with the great-grandsons of 
his contemporaries. 

One story, I remember, was told of a neat retort by a 
Liberal Member to Mr. Herbert Gladstone, to whom he 
applied for a ticket to the House. 

" I am anxious," said the Member, " to bring my boy, 
who is home for the holidays, to hear Mr. Gladstone's great 
speech. I should specially wish him to hear Mr. Gladstone 
before he dies." 

Thereupon Mr. Herbert Gladstone retorted somewhat 
hotly, that his father had no notion of dying just yet. 

" Of course, I know that," said the Liberal blandly, " I 
know that your father will never die. When I said that I 
wanted my boy to hear him before he died, it was, of course, 
to my boy's death I alluded." 

Two illustrations of that wonderful vitality and vivacity 
are present to my recollection. Mr. Gladstone never shirked 
the monotonous labour of the division lobby. I have seen 
him in the small hours of the morning, time after time, 
march with shoulders square and head erect through division 
after division. Nor was this all ; while others loitered in the 
lobby Mr. Gladstone seized every spare moment for work. 

In various nooks in the division lobbies of the House of 
Commons are set a number of writing-tables on which a 
letter may be dashed off while you wait, and no one utilized 
those tables so arduously as Mr. Gladstone. On the occasion 
I have in mind, he had got to a table almost at the end of 



228 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

the lobby furthest from the exit, and was instantly im- 
mersed in his correspondence. The lobby emptied more 
rapidly than usual. The tellers, who stand at the exit door 
counting their flock as they pass, and hurrying up the 
stragglers, grew impatient. " Door, door ! " they cried, 
which is the House of Commons' equivalent for "hurry up," 

I saw Mr. Gladstone, as the sound reached his ears, leap 
from his seat, gather his letters hastily into a writing-case, 
and go racing up the whole length of the lobby with head 
erect and elbows well tucked in to his sides like an athlete 
on the track. I passed him again just as he entered the 
House, and he was not even breathed by his sprint. When 
this happened he was well over eighty years of age. 

On another occasion, I remember, long after midnight, 
there was a tremendous crush in the division lobby, while the 
Members dribbled slowly, one by one, through the turnstile. 
At the outskirts of the congested district was Mr. Gladstone, 
patiently waiting his turn with the rest. I contrived to 
secure a chair, which I offered him, but he put it aside with 
a gracious gesture. 

" No, no," he said smilingly, " it would never do for me to 
turn obstructionist." 

When Mr. Gladstone retired, the light of genius was 
quenched in the House of Commons, and its chief charm 
departed. We had many able, many eloquent, many 
brilliant men remaining, but no second Gladstone. 

The dull round of commonplace debate became duller 
than ever ; there was no longer the hope of one of his 
brilliant flashes of genius to redeem it, 

Mr. Gladstone honoured me personally with much 
kindness, and I occasionally heard from him after he 
retired, in the form of correspondence he most affected — 
the post card. In too flattering terms he accorded me 
permission to dedicate my story, " Lord Edward FitzGerald," 
to him, as the " best English friend Ireland has ever had." 

I had some letters and many post cards while we were in 
the House together, and afterwards. The following contain, 
so far as I am aware, his latest declarations in favour of 
Home Rule for Ireland : — 



FRONT BENCHERS 229 

" Sir, 

" I return my best thanks for your note and kind 
gift. They will, I hope, form a new incitement to pre- 
serving effort in a cause which I believe to be one of justice, 
peace and all happy results for every one affected by it. 
" I remain your very faithful and obedient 

" W. Gladstone. June 26, '90." 

" My dear Sir, 

" One word to offer thanks for the volume I had just 
received, and to assure you that my opinions and feelings 
with regard to the history and the future of Ireland remain 
totally unchanged. 

" Yours faithfully, 

" W. Gladstone. July 16, '96." 

So much has been said and written about Gladstone's 
change of politics, that it is interesting to learn from himself 
that he never was an " orthodox Tory." 

" Sir, 

" I thank you sincerely for your letter and enclosure. 
Undoubtedly in 1832 I was an earnest Tory. An orthodox 
Tory I fear I never was. 

" Your faithful and obedient 

" W. Gladstone. April 12, '87." 

Mr. Gladstone's first lieutenant, Sir William Harcourt, 
was one of the great figures in the House impossible to 
ignore or forget. A kindly natured man, but a fine fighter, 
Sir William was the " Dugald Dalgetty" of party politics. 
He followed his leader in sheer loyalty through all the strain 
and stress of the Home Rule Campaign. But though it 
may be that the personal authority of Mr. Gladstone helped 
to convince him of the necessity for Home Rule, his con- 
viction was none the less sincere. He has been called " The 
Slogger " of debate. His retorts were like the stroke of a 
broadsword, not evading, but breaking down the guards of 
his opponents. His invective went home like the straight- 
from-the-shoulder blow of a skilled pugilist. 



230 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

I have him now in my mind as I write, towering in pride 
of place beside Mr. Gladstone on the Government benches ; 
he holds in his hand a number of sheets of paper from which 
he reads his speech, verbatim as he speaks it, but there was 
never before a man who could so thoroughly give to a 
written speech the freedom, force and verve of an extem- 
porary oration. When he flung out a brilliant taunt or a 
crushing argument at the Opposition benches, he invariably 
turned round in a half-circle to face the loyal ranks behind 
him in quest of that storm of applause that never failed to 
greet his oratorical triumphs. 

Of quite a different style, but to my thinking even a finer 
debater, was Mr, Asquith, He was of Mr. Chamberlain's 
school, and Chamberlain at his very best was no match for 
Asquith at his best. In the keen conflict of debate his 
intellectual sword-play was quiet, but deadly, and he 
turned the blade in the wound. 

I remember one occasion on which he followed and 
answered Mr. Chamberlain in a speech of overruling force, 
" The right honourable Member for West Birmingham has 
been torpedoed by my right honourable friend," was Sir 
William Harcourt's description of the result. 

It is curious how often a man who is supreme in the law 
courts cuts a comparatively poor figure in the House of 
Commons. Erskine has often been cited as an example ; Sir 
Charles Russell was another. Mr, Healy was an apparent 
exception to the rule, but he began by a parliamentary 
training, he was a Member first and a lawyer afterwards. 
The traditions and restrictions of the legal training, the 
anomalies of the laws of evidence hamper the parliamentary 
orator. 

A great Irish Equity lawyer, after his first experience of 
the House of Commons, complained that a Member of 
Parliament was allowed to read to the House a letter which 
was not verified by an affidavit. 

I had heard Sir Charles Russell in the Parnell Commission 
before I heard him from the Government benches. He 
absolutely dominated the Court, judges and all. His 
supremacy was born witness to by the greatest of his rivals. 



FRONT BENCHERS 231 

Sir Charles had dropped some paper, and flurried and 
excited was looking for it on his desk. Sir Henry James, 
who sat beside him, stooped down and lifted the paper from 
the floor and handed it back to his famous opponent. 

" Thank you, thank you," cried Sir Charles, " but where 
did you find it ? " 

" Where we all are. Sir Charles," replied the courtly Sir 
Henry, " at your feet." 

Keen, powerful, dominating, Russell, Q.c, was a very 
different person from mild, deprecating and somewhat 
ineffective Russell, m.p. In the same way Sir Henry James 
in the House of Commons was but a faint reflection of Sir 
Henry James of the law courts. He affected in Parliament 
an air of extreme respectability which earned for him the 
name of prig, and made him the target of many stinging 
jibes from Mr. Labouchere. Next to Lord Curzon he was the 
most " superior person " in that democratic assembly. 

His well-turned homilies are best remembered by a 
brilliant epigram which one of them extorted from Mr. 
Morley. Sir Henry had lectured the House of Commons, 
and chiefly the Home Rule Government, from the inacces- 
sible altitude of his own lofty morality, and Mr. Morley rose 
to reply. 

" The right honourable gentleman," he said, " has 
treated the House to a speech which is an admirable com- 
bination of the forum, the pulpit and the stage." 

The scandalized indignation of Sir Henry James at this 
sacrilege intensified the amusement of the audience. 

As a rule, however, Mr, Morley, second only on the 
platform to Mr. Gladstone himself, was not effective in the 
House of Commons. The atmosphere seemed to unnerve 
him, he was hesitating, timid and too prone to make con- 
cessions to his opponents. 

While I was a Member of Parliament my services on the 
platform were frequently requisitioned by British Home 
Rulers, and everywhere I spoke I found a sympathetic and 
encouraging audience, with whom a little humour went a 
long way, and who were always most generous with the 
orator's wages — laughter and cheers. My stock argument 



232 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

that Home Rule meant the bringing of friendship between the 
two countries never failed to awaken their enthusiasm. 

Once I attended with the then Mr. Sydney Buxton, lately 
ennobled, a meeting of his constituents in London. On 
the way to the meeting he warned me against disappoint- 
ment at the apathy with which he expected the subject 
of Home Rule would be received. On the way back he 
confessed that Home Rule was the only topic that had really 
stirred the enthusiasm of his constituents. 

I had a very amusing experience at a Woman's Rights 
meeting in Swansea. The two resolutions were Home Rule 
and Votes for Women. When Home Rule was safely carried 
I expressed some doubts about the propriety of votes for 
women, and all the lady orators wasted their speeches in a 
good-humoured attempt to convert me, while the men in the 
audience enjoyed the joke. What, I wonder, would be the 
fate of a man who would dare attempt such a thing now 
at a meeting of two thousand suffragettes ? 

My constant companion on those missionary meetings was 
a brilliant young Welshman, who discoursed about Welsh 
Disestablishment as I about Home Rule, and who specially 
prided himself on being a Celt. Even in those days I was 
charmed by his brilliant and persuasive eloquence. His 
name was Lloyd George. 



CHAPTER XXIV 
PORTRAITS FROM MEMORY 

An eccentric Solicitor- General — Briar pipe, coatless and hatlesa — 
Labouchere — "A matter of conscience "—Balfour, his fascination — 
Chamberlain and Son— Gladstone's compliment— McNeill's inter- 
ruption, " Send for Joe ! " — Sexton — O'Brien — Dillon — Blake — Davitt 
— "The way to the Bench not through the dock" — Tim Healy — An 
effective intervention — " Hicary Vicary Gibbs " — T. P. O'Connor, as 
a speaker, as a golfer — Justin McCarthy — ^Out. 

THE Solicitor-General in Gladstone's last Government 
was Mr. Ridley, a great Equity lawyer with a very 
rotund figure and a curious sing-song intonation. It was 
thought great sport for young Tory bloods to bait this un- 
couth Sohcitor-General, and whenever there was a lull in 
the debate they called out : " Ridley ! Ridley ! " But 
after a few sharp lessons they learned that that game did 
not pay : they got too much of Ridley. Instead of address- 
ing the House in the usual way from his seat, it was his 
custom to lumber slowly out on the floor, and with his 
stomach against the table and his face directly facing the 
Speaker, he addressed him as if he was a judge in a law 
court. But he always spoke with homely sense and cogency, 
and soundly trounced his unruly interrupters. On one 
occasion as he lumbered into his accustomed place, a much- 
worn briar pipe dropped from his hand or his pocket and 
bobbed along the floor amid the uproarious laughter of the 
House, whom a small thing mightily amuses. In no way 
disconcerted, he picked it up, restored it to his pocket and 
coolly proceeded with his speech. Curiously enough, this 
little incident established him as a prime favourite. 

In my Hfe I never met a man so indifferent as he was to 
appearances and conventions. One Sunday forenoon we 
went out together to dine and spend the Sunday with a 
colleague, Mr. Cobb, m.p., who had a very pretty place at 

233 



234 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Harrow. Elaborate arrangements had been made to have 
a fly at the station to meet the SoHcitor-General. But we 
came out through the wrong door. There was no fly wait- 
ing, and we had to walk a good mile up a steep hill to our 
destination. It was a blazing hot forenoon, and the stout 
Solicitor-General puffed and panted as he toiled up the hill 
while all the beauty and fashion of Harrow went by to 
church. Presently, to my amazement, he stopped and 
pulled off his frock-coat and folded it. Then, in his shirt- 
sleeves, with his top-hat in his right hand and his frock-coat 
over his left arm, the Solicitor-General for England pursued 
his way unabashed amid the fashionable throng. On our 
arrival he and his host had a violent altercation on the " fly " 
question, which they settled amicably over a quart of 
shandygaff. 

One of my pleasantest recollections of the House is 
associated with Mr. Labouchere. In the dull routine of 
business one got to long for amusement as the traveller in 
the desert longs for water. Mr. Labouchere was always 
amusing, with that curious cynical humour of his own. I am 
inclined to think that if he had been less amusing he would 
have been more successful, and that that cynical humour 
of his was the chief barrier against his entrance to the 
Cabinet. 

He loved a piece of mischief like a schoolboy. One story 
I remember well which fairly indicates his tactics. He had 
a motion down for an amendment on the Address condemn- 
ing the House of Lords. The Government opposed the 
amendment. Mr. Tom Ellis^ who had just succeeded Mr. 
Majoribanks to the position of Chief Liberal Whip, inter- 
viewed Mr. Labouchere on the subject. But Mr. Labouchere 
persisted, and carried his motion in a half-empty house, and 
I heard him afterwards in the smoke-room detail the secret 
of his success. 

" Ellis," he said, " came to me to ask me how many 
speakers I had, how many promised to vote, and how long 
the debate would be likely to last. I told him I had few 
supporters, but they would all speak, and the debate would 
probably last some hours. He believed me, and let his men 



PORTRAITS FROM MEMORY 235 

go. Five minutes afterwards I took a division and defeated 
the Government. 

" I am sorry for Ellis," said Mr. Labouchere reflectively ; 
" he is a decent fellow, and it may get him into trouble ; but 
on a question of principle like this one must be ready to 
sacrifice one's own father. If Majoribanks were there," he 
added plaintively, " I could not have done it, for Majori- 
banks would not have believed a single word I said." 

I entered the House with a very bitter personal dislike 
of Mr. Arthur Balfour, whom to that hour I had never 
seen. Before I was a week there I found myself constantly 
struggling against the inclination to like him. His voice 
was so pleasant, his smile so captivating, his manner so 
charming, that I had constantly to recall the incidents of 
the Coercion regime, which he personally conducted in 
Ireland, in order to arm myself against his fascination. 

In startling contrast to Mr. Balfour was Mr. Joseph 
Chamberlain, whom Irishmen found it quite easy and 
natural to dislike. Yet it is hard to describe the repellent 
influence he exercised. There was something in his alert 
self-assurance, in his caustic speech, that grated on his 
hearers, even when the brilliancy of the speech itself — its 
logical arguments and effective sarcasm — compelled admira- 
tion. The hostility which Mr. Chamberlain provoked was 
reflected in milder form on his son, who revolved about him 
as a satellite round a sun. 

Mr. Austen Chamberlain, as I remember him, was a hand- 
some, floridly dressed young person, who in the dog days wore 
a cummerbund of more than Oriental splendour, and whose 
deHght it was, literally and figuratively, to sit at the feet 
of his father on the Cross-benches and punctuate his remarks 
with enthusiastic applause. 

This same young gentleman was the centre of an affect- 
ing scene when he made his maiden speech in the House. 
The speech itself was a poor affair enough, correct, but 
commonplace in style and argument, and delivered in a 
somewhat exaggerated parody of his father's voice and 
manner. The elder Mr. Chamberlain was horribly uneasy 
while the younger Mr. Chamberlain was on his legs, and his 



236 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

uneasiness was intensified when at the close of Master 
Austen's speech Mr. Gladstone rose. 

To everyone in the House it was plain that Mr. Chamber- 
lain had expected a specimen of the genial and dexterous 
ridicule of which the Grand Old Man was past master. The 
opportunity was tempting — Mr. Chamberlain probably knew 
that under similar circumstances he himself would not have 
resisted it. But the Grand Old Man was made of different 
material. He pronounced a delicate eulogium on the speech, 
kindly, graceful and considerate, with just here and there 
a touch of judicious flattery. He ended with a generous 
compliment to the young orator, whose success in his 
maiden effort could not fail to be " dear to the heart of a 
father." 

While Mr. Gladstone's speech was in progress all eyes 
were turned on Mr. Chamberlain, and, to his credit be it 
said, he was visibly and deeply affected by the generosity 
of Mr. Gladstone. 

Before I am done with Mr. Chamberlain let me mention 
one most amusing incident, of which Mr. Swift MacNeill, m.p., 
was ' the hero. Mr. Chamberlain was moving a vote of 
censure on the Government. He read a ponderous indict- 
ment with grave solemnity, dwelling on the several crimes 
and misdemeanours of the Ministers until he came to his 
peroration. " We therefore," he went on, " respectfully 
advise Her Most Gracious Majesty to " 

" Send for Joe ! " shouted Mr. MacNeill in the middle of 
the sentence. 

The House exploded in a roar of laughter, in which Mr. 
Chamberlain, inaudible and indignant, resumed his seat. 

Though Mr. Justin McCarthy was Chairman of the Irish 
party, Mr. Sexton, as his first lieutenant, generally took 
the lead in the House of Commons. As a speaker he was 
generally regarded as second only to Mr. Gladstone. I re- 
member Sir George Trevelyan, returning from a meeting, 
told me that this was the opinion of the Speaker, Peel, and 
that he himself thoroughly shared the same view. 

Two parliamentary exploits of Mr. Sexton live very dis- 
tinctly in my remembrance. The first was the dressing he 



PORTRAITS FROM MEMORY 237 

administered to the present Lord Selborne for some insult- 
ing allusion to the Irish party. His victim sat sulkily silent 
with bowed head and flushed face under the torrent of 
fiery invective, and at the close was constrained to make, 
with manifest reluctance, an ungracious apology. 

On the other occasion Mr. Sexton was the central figure 
of an incident that went near to disrupting the alliance 
between the Liberal and the Irish National parties. Mr. 
St. John Brodrick, now Lord Midleton, in an insulting 
speech described the Irish as " a garrulous and impecunious 
race." Mr. Sexton, in reply, characterized the observation 
as " impertinent." At the instance of Mr. Balfour the timid 
Chairman of Committee, Mr. Millar, ruled Mr. Sexton's 
language was unparliamentary, and called on him to with- 
draw. The ruling was plainly absurd; everyone in the 
House knew it to be absurd, and Mr. Sexton refused to 
obey it. 

Then followed a scene of tremendous excitement. Mr. 
Balfour saw his advantage and pressed it home. If the 
House divided on the question of Mr. Sexton's expulsion 
for refusing to obey the Chairman's ruling, the Liberal party 
would either be compelled to vote for it against their view 
and inclination, or to administer a snub to their own recently 
appointed chairman, which would compel his instant resig- 
nation. Mr. Gladstone saved the situation by a personal 
appeal to Mr. Sexton. 

Mr. O'Brien and Mr. Dillon spoke very seldom in those 
days, and when they did speak they were listened to with 
the attention which earnestness always commands in that 
assembly. 

The House of Commons is, however, jealous of a reputa- 
tion elsewhere acquired. The Honble. Mr. Edward Blake 
came there from Canada, where he was the leader of the 
Liberal party and reputed the most eloquent man in the 
Dominion. But he never found his feet in the House of 
Commons. His stately and florid style was not rehshed by 
an assembly which is intolerant of any " eloquence " except 
of the very highest order, and which believes with Horace, 
" si paulo a summo decessit vergit ad immum." 



238 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

On the other hand, the maiden speech of Mr. Michael 
Davitt was an immediate success. Its unaffected simpHcity 
captured instant approval, for there is nothing the House 
hates hke affectation. The speech contained one very happy 
allusion. The previous evening Mr. Barton, now Mr. Justice 
Barton, the most kindly and gentle of men, had, in an 
earnest and eloquent speech, gravely informed the astonished 
House that in certain eventualities he would take a place 
beside the rioters in the streets of Belfast. 

Mr. Davitt smilingly rebuked the honourable and learned 
member for this indiscretion. " The way to the Bench in 
Ireland," he assured him, " is not through the dock." 

The maiden speech was remarkable for another and some- 
what sensational episode. While Davitt was speaking a 
Tory Member hissed out the word " Murderer ! " He was 
instantly brought to book by an Irish Member, and after 
the lame excuse that he had not meant the insult to be 
heard, he was compelled to make abject apology. 

Mr. Healy's impish humour made him an immense 
favourite, and the House was instantly crowded to the doors 
when he rose with Members who came to be amused or 
convinced. Most effective was his performance on the first 
night of the guillotine. 

The Unionists were furious at the suggestion of closure 
by departments as the answer to obstruction, and had stage- 
managed a sensational effect in which the chief role was to 
be played by Mr. Balfour as leader of the Opposition. It 
was arranged the guillotine should first fall upon him, an 
indignant martyr to the cause of free speech. But this fine 
stage effect was spoiled by Mr. Healy, who contrived to 
catch the Speaker's eye just before Mr. Balfour rose and 
began a speech of delightful humour. For a time the 
Unionists enjoyed it, and laughed with the rest at his 
cynical sallies. But presently it dawned on them that Mr. 
Balfour was to be robbed of his opportunity of indignant 
protest, and they began to shout, " 'Vide, 'Vide ! " 

Mr. Healy begged them not to be impatient ; he entreated 
them to respect the liberty of debate. The division, he 
assured them, would come soon enough. The climax was 




Photo by Williatn Lawrence, Dublin. 

Michael Davitt 



p. 238 



PORTRAITS FROM MEMORY 239 

reached when Mr. William Johnston, of Ballykilbeg, jumped 
up from the Unionist side to move the very closure which 
Mr. Balfour had got ready to denounce. 

All the stuffing was knocked out of the protest against 
the guillotine. " You surpassed yourself to-night, Healy," 
I heard Sir William Harcourt whisper as they passed 
through the division lobby together. 

The House was, indeed, a big playground for Mr. Healy, 
in which he loved to disport himself. His humour had a 
pungent flavour that was always keenly appreciated. On 
one occasion as Mr. Harry Forster, who had just distin- 
guished himself by his manipulation in the City of 
" Warner's Safe Cure," which had just been floated as a 
joint-stock company, was addressing the House in an irrele- 
vant speech, Mr. Healy kept up a constant interruption of 
" Warner, Warner, Warner ! " bobbing up and down on 
his seat with the glee of a mischievous schoolboy. To the 
Speaker and those a little distance away the interruption 
sounded like " Order, order, order ! " But there was a 
ripple of laughter round the unfortunate Harry Forster, who 
daren't protest. Again the climax was reached by Mr. 
Johnston, of Ballykilbeg, in whose madness there was 
method, and sometimes a spice of malice as well. Gravely 
rising to a point of order, he called the attention of the 
Speaker to the obnoj^ious word, and so let the whole House 
into the joke. 

Mr. Healy objected to the name Higgenbottom, which be- 
longed to a much respected parliamentary reporter. " If 
I'd a name like that," he said to me, " I'd kick the bottom 
off it." 

Another name which amused him hugely was " Vicary 
Gibbs." Once, when Mr. Gibbs was speaking, Healy nearly 
knocked him out of time by a sudden interruption. Then 
I saw him scribbling delightedly on a scrap of paper, which 
he handed down to me, and I read : — 

Hicary Vicary Gibbs, 
A mouse ran up his ribs. 
His ribs were bare 
And he got a great scare, 
Hicary Vicary Gibbs, 



240 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

One of the most popular of all the Irish Members with all 
classes and conditions of men was T. P. O'Connor. As he 
walked down the Terrace everyone he met, men and women, 
wanted a word with him. There were few more effective 
speakers in the House of Commons, and no more effective 
speaker on the platform. He was constantly beset by 
Members with doubtful seats beseeching him to speak in 
their constituencies. I have heard T. P. O'Connor's devo- 
tion to Home Rule questioned, but surely he has given 
ample proof of that devotion. If he had chosen to cut him- 
self loose from the Irish party, he might easily have secured 
any seat he desired in the British Cabinet. 

Socially he was a most delightful companion, with the 
frank good-humour of a big child. Occasionally he stayed 
with me when he visited Dublin, and never was there a 
more delightful guest. It was characteristic of the man that 
never having cared in the least for outdoor sports, he should 
in middle age take to golf with the absorbing enthusiasm of 
a boy. In an article in Fry's Magazine I once described him 
as the keenest golfer and the worst I had ever known, and 
he cheerfully accepted the description. Five yards added 
to his fifty yards drive was a matter of jubilation. Once, 
when we were playing a foursome at DoUymount, he con- 
trived to hole out a long putt. 

" T.P.," I asked, " did any political triumph ever give 
you such satisfaction ? " 

" Never ! " he cried enthusiastically. " I swear it, 
never ! " 

It is one of the proudest privileges of my life to be able 
to claim as friend the gentle, kindly and courteous man, 
who was my leader in the House of Commons. The word 
genial, in its fullest and warmest meaning, fitted Mr. 
Justin McCarthy like a glove. I never knew another man 
so kindly natured — " a most untiring friend in doing 
courtesies." It has been said somewhere that no one is 
worth anything who has no enemies. Mr. McCarthy gives 
the lie to that harsh saying : no one could be at enmity 
with him. Though he never shirked a duty or compromised 
a principle, though he spoke his mind freely when plain 



PORTRAITS FROM MEMORY 241 

speaking was called for, he was, I believe, the most univer- 
sally popular of men. I remember once seeing the pro- 
spectus of a famous American literary club of which in 
their time Longfellow, Holmes, Emerson, Hawthorne, 
Lowell, and indeed all the lights of American literature, 
were prominent members. The prospectus contained all 
the names of the presidents, vice-presidents and members of 
this club. There was a single page reserved for " honorary 
members," and in the centre of that white page there was 
one name " Justin McCarthy." 

Yet Mr. McCarthy was, if possible, more modest than he 
was popular. He was entirely devoid of self -consciousness. 
Very early in our acquaintance, when I still looked up to 
him with something of awe, he asked me why I addressed 
him as Mr. McCarthy. I stammered some kind of explana- 
tion. 

" Don't do it again," he warned me genially. " Call me 
Justin ; I am always Justin to my friends," 

I am glad to believe that our friendship grew and waxed 
strong during those three or four years of parliamentary 
hard labour. 

There was a bond between us in the fact that we were 
both engaged in active journalistic work at the time. How 
well I remember his S3niipathetic smile as we stole off to- 
gether reluctantly from the smoking-room to the quieter 
galleries of the House, where we could make copy in peace. 

" Going to get ready my shower of frogs," was his phrase 
for the writing of one of his genial and delightful articles 
for the Daily News. 

During the whole of my parliamentary experience I had 
the good fortune to dine at the same time and at the same 
table with Justin McCarthy. It was in a quiet little corner 
of the big dining-room. The fine literary flavour of his 
comment and outlook on men and things made, indeed, a 
rare intellectual treat. The dinner-hour was for me a de- 
lightful oasis in the dreary desert of the parliamentary 
day. 

Though Justin McCarthy usually delegated the work of 
leadership to Mr. Sexton, he spoke occasionally with a power 



242 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

that one would hardly expect from a man of his gentle and 
genial nature. I remember few things more effective than 
his reply to the present Prime Minister, Mr. Asquith, who, 
as Home Secretary, in a hard and uns5niipathetic speech, 
refused to consider the release of certain political prisoners. 

" The right honourable gentleman," said the gentle Justin, 
" has not merely closed the prison gates on these unhappy 
men, he has closed them with a clang." 

Later on I shall have a word to say about the visit I paid 
the dear old veteran in his retirement at Westgate-on-Sea. 

While a Member in the House of Commons I also took an 
actual part in the National organization in Ireland, as the 
following letter may testify : — 

" My dear Bodkin, 

" I congratulate you on the grand work you have 
done. You have certainly been largely instrumental in 
saving the situation in Dublin from a diabolical tangle. It 
is terrible to allow affairs to drift into such a position when 
all danger and trouble could be avoided by a decision taken 
in time. . . . 

" You have done splendidly for the parliamentary fund. 
Before you went over it was under an extinguisher. 

" Yours sincerely, 

" John Dillon." 

It is now no secret that when the House of Lords rejected 
Home Rule Mr. Gladstone was in favour of appealing to 
the country. He was overruled and retired, and Lord 
Rosebery slipped into his place. In his first speech as 
Prime Minister Lord Rosebery declared that there was " no 
change of policy, only a disastrous change of leaders." The 
last part of the sentence, at least, proved pitifully true. 
From the date of Mr, Gladstone's retirement the session was 
an anti-climax. We plodded through routine work, the 
Irish party loyally backing up their Liberal allies who had 
passed Home Rule. Often when I hear afterwards of Ireland's 
ingratitude to the Liberal party I remember that dreary 
period when the Irish party loyally helped the Liberals to 



PORTRAITS FROM MEMORY 243 

hold their places and pass their Bills with the assurance of 
a reciprocal loyalty to Home Rule. 

The end came suddenly at last. 

There was a snap division in a thin House, and the Liberals 
were put to their choice — either rescind the vote, which they 
could easily have done, if so disposed, or go to the country. 
The issue at the General Election was raised in Mr, Morley's 
famous phrase " to mend or end the House of Lords." But 
the Liberals were hampered with the leadership of a lord, 
whose shuffling and faltering at every step led them to 
ruin. 

For myself, I dropped out of Parliament quietly, though, 
let me confess, reluctantly as well. 

I look back over my time there with a curious fascination. 
I do not regret the experience so dearly bought. It is some- 
thing, it is much, to have recorded a vote in that momentous 
division on Home Rule ; it is much to have mingled as an 
actor, however humble, in those momentous happenings. 

Would I like to be back again ? Let me be quite frank 
and confess I would. The House of Commons grips a man 
even while he grumbles. 

For years after I had committed parliamentary suicide 
I could not bear to revisit the House. I had a curious 
objection to being stopped at this door or that as a mere 
member of the public, and, above all, at the door of the 
Legislative Chamber itself, through which as a Member of 
the House I passed freely. When at last I conquered my 
repugnance, I was surprised to find myself recognized ajid 
accosted by the officials. But my feelings, as I chatted with 
my friends and former colleagues who came and went 
through the swinging doors of the House (with a big " H "), 
were a very fair imitation of those of Tom Moore's famous 
Peri, who 

At the open gate 
Of Eden stood disconsolate. 

I had many flattering requests to return, the most flatter- 
ing from my native place, the Tuam Division of County 
Galway, endorsed by Mr. Justin McCarthy, who enclosed 
to me the letter addressed to him on the subject by an 



244 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

influential priest of the district, and backed up the request 
by an earnest appeal of his own. " I have no doubt," he 
wrote, " that you would be the best candidate for North 
Gal way. Is your resolution not to contest any constituency 
irrevocable ? " 

Again my poverty, and not my will, refused. My practice 
at the Bar had necessarily been much impaired by my 
absence in Parliament, and to supplement my income I 
settled down to a new phase of Press life as chief leader 
writer to the Freeman's Journal, a position which I could 
not afford to abandon. 



CHAPTER XXV 
THE EDITORIAL "WE" 

Tricks of the trade — Searching for subjects — " God save the King ! " — 
Campbell-Bannerman and Lord Rosebery — Raising the flag of Home 
Rule — The editor's sanctum — Miscellaneous visitors — A Christian 
Science miracle. 

I HAVE already commented on the ignorance of the man 
in the street regarding the Hfe-work of the purveyor of 
news, his ignorance of the purveyor of opinions is even more 
remarkable. The newspaper reader is on intimate terms 
with the newspaper writer. He chats with him at breakfast, 
gossips at lunch and settles down for a serious talk after 
dinner, yet he knows absolutely nothing of his guide, 
philosopher and friend. The leading articles in the favourite 
journal are read and quoted without a thought of how they 
came to be written. The mysterious editorial " we " is 
vaguely suggestive of an oracle kept tame on the newspaper 
premises and ready to deliver impromptu and infallible 
pronouncements on every subject under heaven, for the 
leader writer must know something of everything, or at 
least successfully assume a knowledge if he have it not. 

During the years I was chief editorial writer of the Freeman 
I went down to the office every night at about ten and 
returned at two or three in the morning. Some nights my 
themes were provided by the editor, others I had to find 
them for myself. In dull times this hunting up of subjects 
was the hardest part of the night's work. The choice was 
wide, ranging, as our editor, W. F. Brayden, used to remark, 
from " cholera to cooling drinks," and it was hard to know 
whether to treat the public to a column of grave instruction 
or a column of lively chaff. The trouble was to make a trite 
* 245 



246 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

subject interesting or a complex subject clear within the in- 
exorable limits. Very often the writer's chief care was to 
conceal his own ignorance, to avoid palpable blunders. But 
there are few subjects on which a reasonably competent 
leader writer does not know a column's worth, and it is his 
function to put into his leader everything he knows and 
nothing that he doesn't. 

A harder ordeal still in times of stress was to keep pace 
with sudden emergencies. Very often the editor would 
place in my hands in the small hours of the morning the 
first " flimsies " announcing some striking event, the delivery 
of an eloquent speech, the passing of an important Act of 
Parliament, and my comment would have to keep pace 
with the " flimsies " as they came from the telegraph en 
route for the printing office, so that the last page of news 
and the last page of the article should go out together to the 
compositors. Next morning such hastily concocted com- 
ment is accepted by the readers as the gravely considered 
judgment of the editorial "we." 

Hasty writing is saved by hasty reading. Few people think 
of criticizing a newspaper. Now and again it has happened 
that a series of leading articles that have attracted attention 
at the time of their publication, have been subsequently 
compiled into a book, but it has almost invariably been 
observed that the " thoughtful " article becomes prosy 
and the " vigorous " article becomes " bunkum " when 
subjected to such treatment. 

The leader writer is occasionally betrayed into amusing 
absurdities. We all know the celebrated instance of the 
writer in the Skibbereen Eagle, who gravely commenced an 
article with the solemn announcement : " We have our eye 
on the Emperor of Russia." Dickens, it is said, could never 
afterwards hear the word Skibbereen mentioned without a 
convulsion of irrepressible laughter. 

A blunder at least as ludicrous occurred within my own 
personal knowledge. A leader writer in the Conservative 
organ The Down Recorder was discussing the propriety of 
arresting Mr. Parnell, a course which he admitted might be 
followed by some local disturbance. " But the Government," 



THE EDITORIAL "WE" 247 

he continued, " in this matter may learn a useful lesson 
from the pages of history. About fifty years ago, the his- 
torian tells us, an emeute occurred in a remote town in 
Cornwall. The Government promptly arrested a man 
named Trelawny, who was the ringleader of the disturbance, 
and conveyed him in custody to London. Now this Tre- 
lawny was a person of considerable local influence, and the 
miners manifested their indignation by parading the streets 
of the town singing a seditious chorus : — 

And shall Trelawny die ? 

And shall Trelawny die ? 

Here's twenty thousand Cornishmen 

To know the reason why. 

But the Government, undeterred by these threats, inflicted 
on Mr. Trelawny the punishment his offences deserved, and 
this vigour had a most salutary effect on quelling the dis- 
turbances." 

For myself I am glad to believe that my many thousand 
leading articles are buried in unfathomable oblivion. Yet it 
is pleasant also to think that once in a way an article written 
on the spur of the moment may have done some service in 
its time, helped a good cause forward or hindered a bad one. 
This much, at least, I may claim, I never wrote a line that 
did not express my honest conviction. 

One night when I was at a loss for a subject, the news was 
wired to the Freeman's Journal Office that the King's 
coronation had to be postponed, and that his Majesty 
himself had just submitted to a painful and dangerous 
operation for appendicitis, of which the issue was still 
doubtful. My subject was found for me. 

" Controversy is hushed," I wrote, " in the face of this 
pitiful human tragedy. For the moment men of all opinions 
in Ireland regard the King not as the monarch, but as the 
man. We see him, not resplendent on a throne with crowds 
assembled from the four corners of the earth to do him 
homage, but helpless on a bed of pain, dubiously hovering 
between life and death. Amid the impending pomp and 
ceremony of the coronation, poor frail humanity has claimed 
the King as her own, an urgent claim and not to be denied. 



248 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

In the very hour of his supremest triumph he has been 
constrained to drain to the dregs the bitter cup of suffering 
from which no son of Adam is exempt. The royal body has 
felt not the touch of the consecrating chrism, but the keen 
edge of the surgeon's knife. Surely never was a more vivid 
example of the vanity of human wishes, the littleness of 
human greatness. The news of his sickness, flashed over 
the land and through the sea, has sent a thrill through the 
world of pity and dismay. In every country, from the Court 
to the cottage, there is thought and talk to-day of the King 
of England, Emperor of India and Lord of the British 
Dominions beyond the Seas, sick, even to death, on the eve 
of his coronation. But how poor a thing, and of how small 
moment, is the world's anxiety to the mere suffering man ! 
How Httle avails him now the flattery and homage of the 
world ! 

O, be sick, great greatess. 
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure ; 
Thinkst thou the fiery fever will go out 
With titles blown from adulation ? 
Will it give place to fiexture and low bending ? 
Canst thou, when thou commandst the beggar's knee. 
Command the health of it ? 

" Never had moralist a more convincing theme to rail 
against the servile worship or the sordid envy of wealth or 
pomp or power that avail so little against pain, disease and 
death. 

" Joined with the feeling of human sympathy with the 
prostrate monarch, there is a touch of inevitable admiration 
for the Spartan heroism with which he has borne up so long 
against the disease that was gnawing at his vitals. 

" The Irish party had refused to take part in the cere- 
monial of the Coronation, but in the Irish isolation and 
protest there was mingled no feehng of personal animosity 
to the King. The belief is current in Ireland, and not with- 
out reason, that the King was friendly to a treaty of peace 
between the two nations, conceived and almost accom- 
plished by the great British statesman for whom he always 
manifested a profound respect and admiration, never more 
plainly manifested than when Gladstone was engaged in his 



THE EDITORIAL "WE" 249 

heroic struggle for Home Rule. Still, Ireland alone out of 
the whole British Empire stood aloof from all participation 
in the coronation. Ireland denied homage to the mighty 
King in the hour of his glory. She will not deny her 
sympathy to the suffering man in the hour of his helplessness 
and danger. Perhaps for the first time in her history, and 
not in the blatant and insulting spirit in which the words are 
so often spoken in this island, she breathes the prayer to- 
day, ' God save the King ! ' " 

I have selected this article from the many thousand I 
have written, because of the sensation it created, not on its 
own account, but by reason of its appearance in a Nation- 
alist newspaper. It was copied verbatim into the London 
dailies, and was fortunate enough to attract the attention 
of his Majesty the King. 

I was told on good authority, and repeat the story for 
what it may be worth, that his late Majesty questioned Sir 
Thomas Lipton, as one likely to know, concerning the name 
of the writer. Sir Thomas Lipton could only tell him that 
Mr. Thomas Sexton was the chairman of the Freeman's 
Journal Company. With this his Majesty was satisfied. He 
naturally assumed that the best intellect at the company's 
disposal would be devoted to a subject so important. He 
had always, he was pleased to say, greatly admired the 
speeches of Mr. Sexton. " Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves." 

One other article I may mention which was not without 
its influence on men and affairs. On the eve of the General 
Election that dismissed the Unionists there was a great deal 
of quibbling among the Liberal leaders, under the influence 
of Lord Rosebery, on the question of Home Rule. It was 
for the most part accepted by the Liberals as a pious opinion, 
but it was tabooed as an issue in the election, and a pledge 
was volunteered to the electors that no Home Rule Bill 
would be introduced during the ensuing session. 

Just at this time Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman made a 
stirring speech at Stirling, in which he freely recognized the 
justice of the Irish claim and pledged himself to active 
support. 

Thereupon I wrote an article in the Freeman's Journal in 



250 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

thorough approval of the speech, concluding with the words : 
" Every vote given for Campbell-Bannerman is a vote 
given for Home Rule." 

Next day the article was quoted by Lord Rosebery 
as proof that there was a full understanding between 
Campbell-Bannerman and the Irish Home Rulers. " He 
has raised," said Lord Rosebery, " the banner of Home Rule 
in its most undisguised form, and under that banner I, for 
one, refuse to serve." 

To his Lordship's desertion the Liberals were largely 
indebted for their overwhelming victory at the polls. From 
that time until the election was over the Freeman's Journal 
article was freely quoted on the Unionist platform and in the 
Unionist Press as a proof that Home Rule was the real issue 
before the electors, with a result exceedingly satisfactory for 
Home Rulers. 

The editor's sanctum of a daily paper has a strange 
attraction for all classes and conditions of people. As acting- 
editor of the Freeman during the vacations and other 
necessary absences of the editor, Mr. Brayden, I had some 
curious experiences. Certainly I had no reason to complain 
of lack of variety or humour in my correspondence and 
visitors. 

The letters that appear in a newspaper are not by any 
means as interesting as letters that are, for one reason or 
another, suppressed as unfit for publication. The editor's 
visiting list is most miscellaneous. On the same night I have 
interviewed a pugilist (Jem Corbett), a bishop, an actor, an 
author and a publican. 

A charming old lady came to me on one occasion to 
complain to me of a severe article which I had written 
ridiculing the pretensions of Christian Scientists. 

I explained that these were my honest views and that I 
felt bound to express them, but I readily consented to 
publish a letter from her in reply, which I regarded as 
excellent " copy." 

Thereupon she essayed to convert me, instancing many 
remarkable cures within her own experiences. 

I stated my position. All these cures seemed to me, I said, 



THE EDITORIAL "WE" 251 

allowing for natural exaggeration in the telling of them, 
to be quite possible by natural means. But if a man's leg 
was cut off at the thigh and the Christian Scientists by their 
prayers grew another leg on to the stump, I would be 
convinced. If their doctrine were sound, I added, such a 
feat would be as easy as to cure a cold in the head, and a 
good deal more convincing. 

The dear old lady gravely considered my suggestion. 

" Well," she said, after a pause, " I must confess, I never 
came across exactly such an instance as you mention. But 
I knew a case of a bad sprained ankle that was cured in less 
than a fortnight." 



CHAPTER XXVI 
TWO MEN WORTH KNOWING 

Sir Hugh Lane, an authority on Art — A touch of his quality — Captain 
Shaw Taylor, social reformer — "The man for Gal way " — Author of the 
Land Conference — A questionable Corot — A curious incident — The 
Captain and the screwdriver. 

WITH two very interesting men, less known than they 
deserve to be by the outside public, my editorial 
duties made me acquainted — Sir Hugh Lane, the great 
picture connoisseur, and Captain Shaw Taylor, the social 
reformer. 

When Sir Hugh gave his first great exhibition in Dublin, 
though I yield to no man in my ignorance of painting, I 
agreed to write the notice for the Freeman's Journal, and 
by the assimilation of hints and suggestions, a very necessary 
faculty of the journalist, and by writing all the little I knew 
and carefully evading the great deal I didn't know, I 
contrived a three-column article that pleased and helped 
him. His gratitude was the beginning of our friendship. 

It is no place here to speak of the incomparable service 
Sir Hugh rendered to Dublin by the formation of the 
Municipal Gallery of Modern Art, and his princely bene- 
factions to the collection ; but I must say a word or two of his 
strange gift, instinct, genius, call it what you will, for dis- 
cerning and identifying pictures however disguised by age 
or grime. 

He lives for pictures and by pictures. His eyes are more 
discriminating of artistic excellence than the sensitive 
palate of the taster in determining the quality of a tea or the 
vintage of a wine. The thickest coating of dirt, even another 
picture superimposed, cannot hide a masterpiece from those 
bright eyes of his. Nor can he explain quite satisfactorily 
how he arrives at his conclusions. It is a purely natural 

252 



TWO MEN WORTH KNOWING 253 

gift that was his from a boy. To my thinking he is Hke 
the man in the fairy-tale on whose eyes the magic ointment 
was rubbed, which enabled him to detect treasures hidden 
in the bowels of the earth. 

I have heard many startling stories of this strange gift of 
Sir Hugh Lane's. Let me instance a couple that came under 
my own personal notice. 

One day, as I was looking through the window of an old 
curiosity shop in Dublin, Sir Hugh came behind me and 
touched me on the shoulder, 

" Let us go in," he said, " and see if he has any pictures." 

We climbed to a wide empty attic hung round with 
paintings of all sorts, mostly daubs. 

" That," said Sir Hugh, pointing to a small dirty panel 
that hung high up on the wall, " is a Van Goyen. No, let 
me see, it is by a pupil of his, Pieter Moylyn." 

We fetched up the proprietor. He named a different 
painter. But when the picture was taken down and closely 
examined, there was found in the corner the signature that 
justified Sir Hugh, Through the mask of dirt he had 
identified this second-class Dutch painter as quickly and as 
confidently as a man identifies the familiar hand-writing of a 
friend. The charming little landscape hangs in my parlour 
as a memento of the incident. 

Another illustration I may offer as striking and more 
amusing. 

" I have found a very dirty Salvator Rosa," said Sir Hugh 
one morning to my son, who had won his favour by a 
discriminating taste for pictures. " It is hidden away in an 
old curiosity shop, and I am going to buy it for you and show 
you how to clean it." Then, having arranged their plan of 
campaign, they proceeded together to the shop. 

Sir Hugh spoke to the proprietor, who knew them both. 

" I want to teach young Mr. Bodkin," he said, " how to 
clean a picture, and I want the dirtiest you have. I think 
that " (pointing to a manifest daub that hung in the full 
light) " about fills the bill ; what is the price of that ? " 

Before the other could reply, my son, by prearrangement, 
chimed in. 



254 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" I think that is even dirtier," he said, and indicated the 
Salvator Rosa. 

" All right," Lane answered carelessly, " have it your own 
way. What is the price of either of these two ? " 

" You can have your choice for fifteen shillings," said the 
dealer, and they chose the Salvator Rosa. 

When I saw the picture after the purchase, it was a 
broad square of canvas caked all over with dirt. Under 
Sir Hugh's careful cleaning, it resolved itself into a bearded 
old man with a basket on his back. Both Sir Hugh and my 
son were in artistic ecstasies over the wonderful red of his 
tattered old coat. 

Captain Shaw Taylor never achieved with the public the 
reputation to which his ability and services entitled him. 
To him, more than to any other man, was due the final settle- 
ment of the Irish Land Question. For he originated the 
startling idea of a friendly Land Conference between the 
representatives of landlords and tenants, and in the face of 
difficulties that, to any other man, would have been irresist- 
ible, he carried his audacious project to a successful issue. 
He had boundless energy and a captivating manner ; no 
rebuff discouraged, no difficulty damped him, and when he 
took you into his confidence with his friendly formula, 
" between you and me and the bedpost," he was impossible 
to resist. 

In one of his random sketches Judge Adams gives us 
some interesting sidelights on the character of the Captain. 

It seemed that a process-server had served a writ on 
Captain Shaw Taylor that was meant for another officer, 
and by way of punishment the Captain had him locked up 
for half an hour in the guard-room. The case came before 
Judge Adams on a process for false imprisonment. In 
delivering judgment Adams quoted for the Captain (himself 
a Galway man) Lever's rollicking lines : — 

To drink a toast, 
A proctor roast, 

Or bailiff, as the case is ; 
To kiss your wife. 
To take a life 

At ten or fifteen paces ; 



TWO MEN WORTH KNOWING 255 

To keep game cocks. 
To hunt the fox, 

To drink in punch the Solway ; 
With debts galore. 
With fun far more, 

Oh, that's the man for Galway ! 

This high ideal of a Galway man's duties, the judge 
explained, was no longer recognized by the law, and he 
awarded the bailiff the liberal damages of a pound. 

" But," Adams continued, " the Captain bore no malice, 
for a very little time afterwards he asked me to dine at the 
mess. He was a charming and most hospitable host. But 
I noticed after a time that, while he plied his guests with the 
foaming grape of Eastern France he himself washed down his 
viands with that unexciting tipple. Limerick pipe-water. I 
said, ' You don't take wine ? ' 'Ah, no,' he said, ' you see, 
I'm always at the poor Tommies about drinking, and how 
could I have any weight with them if I took wine myself ? ' 

" After dinner cigarettes were handed round in due 
course, and again I observed that my Captain did not smoke. 
It was the same reason, ' The poor Tommies,' he said 
' spend all their money in buying cigarettes and ruin their 
health inhaling, so as an example I have given up smoking 
myself.' 

" This, I thought, is quite a new kind of Captain to 
meet at a regimental mess, and as the night wore on this 
impression was every moment deepened. 

" The Captain talked of matters seldom heard of in such 
a place. The condition, the sufferings, the hopes of his 
country. ' Across the Irish path,' he said, ' there were 
three great giants, three Goliaths of Gath. The licensing 
question, which in its present state is poisoning rural Ireland 
by the wholesale multiplication of public-houses ; the land 
question, which has filled Ireland with tears of blood ; the 
condition of University education, a last relic of the bad old 
times of religious feud and intolerance.' 

" ' Yes,' I said, ' they are three Goliaths, but where is 
David the son of Jesse ? ' 

" ' Upon my word,' he said, ' I sometimes think I will have 
a try at them myself.' 



256 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" My eye caught that of an officer at the other side of the 
table who had heard some of the conversation. Our mutual 
glance had a plain meaning. Turned into plain English 
it was ' amiable dreamer.' 

" In due course the regiment left Limerick, and was sent 
to the war, where my host was stricken with a deadly illness. 
I heard that he had come home and recovered his health, 
and then when he was slipping from my memory I began to 
see his name in the papers. 

" After a little time I made a strange discovery. That 
night I had met unawares the true Jack the Giant Killer. 
This young soldier was no amiable dreamer, but a man at the 
sound of whose trumpet ancient wrongs fell down. This 
young man was, indeed, a new David, the son of Jesse. At 
the first pebble from his scrip — the summons to the Licens- 
ing Conference in Dublin — the licensing scandal fell to earth. 
At the second — the summons to the Land Conference — the 
land question was settled. A third pebble has been hurled 
from the sling, and, behold, that venerable Goliath, the 
intolerance which refuses justice to Ireland in the matter of 
Catholic education, reels ominously, and may at any moment 
sink to the earth and die among its worshippers." 

Yet Judge Adams was not so wrong after all, in his first 
impression of the Captain, embodied in that quotation from 
Lever. The old Adam was not quite dead in him, the 
Galway devil-may-care recklessness broke out occasionally 
in the social reformer. The following incident might have 
found an appropriate place in the adventures of Charles 
O'Malley :— 

Captain Shaw Taylor had an intense admiration for his 
cousin Sir Hugh Lane. Now it chanced that while Sir 
Hugh, with tireless energy, was getting together the collec- 
tion for his gallery, he induced the then Prince of Wales, now 
King George V, to purchase a picture which was reputed 
to be an early example of the great French painter Corot. 
Sir Hugh has rivals who would be glad to catch him tripping, 
and the rumour was industriously circulated that the 
picture in question was not a Corot at all, but a copy of a 
painting in the Budapest Gallery. Nay, more, when Sir 



TWO MEN WORTH KNOWING 257 

Hugh's collection found a temporary shelter in one of the 
rooms of the Dublin Museum there was screwed up on 
the outside wall, just at the door of the gallery, a huge 
photo of the Budapest picture for the purpose of dis- 
crediting the Corot and disabling the artistic reputation of 
Sir Hugh. 

About this time Captain Shaw Taylor got married. I 
don't say he married for the express purpose, but he certainly 
made his honeymoon an excuse for a visit to Budapest. 
There he carefully scrutinized the picture which had been 
the origin of the controversy. As an art critic he was probably 
as incompetent as myself, but he had no difficulty in con- 
vincing himself that the picture bore no resemblance to the 
Corot approved of by his cousin. 

Returning to Dublin, he drove at once to the Museum 
with his bride and a screwdriver. Having installed his bride 
in a comfortable seat he proceeded to unscrew the objection- 
able photo. To the inquiring policeman in charge of the 
place he explained the situation with an engaging frankness 
that quite won his heart. The Corot, he assured him, was 
absolutely genuine, it bore no resemblance to the picture 
which he had just examined in Budapest. The photograph 
was intended as an insult to his cousin Hugh Lane, and he 
had therefore come to remove it. The policeman sym- 
pathized with his view of the situation, and presently the 
Captain drove off in his cab with his bride, his screwdriver 
and the objectionable photograph, which he doubtless 
preserved as a trophy, even as the wrenched knocker is 
preserved by the young man about town. 



CHAPTER XXVII 
DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE 

The boom of the century — A financial misfortune — How I met J. B. Dunlop 
— Our friendship — Full, true and particular account of the Dunlop tyre 
— Its trials and triumphs — Dunlop and Thompson — Invented and re- 
invented — Troublesome visitors — A lunatic and a heroine. 

A CURIOUS chance brought me into relations of close 
intimacy with the famous J. B. Dunlop, the inventor, 
or perhaps I should rather say the rediscoverer, of the 
pneumatic tyre. 

I may say, in passing, that the Dunlop tyre is a rather 
sore subject with me. I believed in the tyre from the first, 
and when the company was started to exploit it with a 
capital of £20,000 in pound shares I applied for a hundred 
But a stockbroker assured me it was a wild-cat company, 
and a champion cyclist assured me that the invention was 
worthless. The company obligingly allowed me to cancel 
my application, and I lost, I am afraid to think how many 
tens of thousands of pounds by the process. The company 
paid a hundred per cent dividends for many years, and was 
eventually sold for three millions. 

My first interview with Mr. Dunlop was connected with a 
little bicycle invention of my own, a combined lamp bracket 
and carrier, of which I subsequently sold the patent to 
Messrs. Brown and Son, London manufacturers. At that 
time Mr. Dunlop was chairman of the great Dublin drapery 
concern, Todd, Burns and Co., of which I happened to be a 
preference shareholder. 

Some months later I chanced to hear that the company 
was not doing as well as heretofore. But as it had paid eight 
per cent on the ordinary shares for the previous half-year, 
I was not seriously perturbed about my preference shares. 
Close to the date of the annual meeting I received a number 

258 



DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE 259 

of circulars attacking the directors and management, and 
finally was startled by the report and statement of accounts, 
which showed a heavy deficit and no interest on ordinary 
or preference shares. Then I had another interview with 
Mr. Dunlop, and he convinced me that though there had 
been mismanagement the company was capable of financial 
recovery, and that a systematic attempt was on foot to 
wreck it. At his suggestion I resolved to attend the meeting 
of shareholders. 

It was the first meeting of the kind I had ever attended, 
it was the first time I had ever put a foot on the company's 
premises. The shareholders were naturally furious, and at 
the outset of the proceedings a motion was proposed to put 
the company into liquidation. Then I made the speech of 
my life. I took for my text the proverb that it is folly to cry 
over spilt milk, and I argued that it would be still greater 
folly to kill the cow in revenge. I explained the financial 
condition of the company, and so completely carried the 
meeting with me that the liquidation motion had only 
the proposer and seconder to support it, and a vote of 
thanks to the chairman and directors was carried unani- 
mously. 

A few days later I had a very courteous and pressing 
invitation to join the board. After considerable hesitation 
I accepted, and remained a director of Todd, Burns and Co, 
until I was appointed a judge. Never was there a more 
amicable board of directors. During the whole time I was a 
member we never put a single question to a division. I do 
not suggest post hoc propter hoc, but it is allowable to 
mention that when I joined the board the ordinary pound 
shares of the company were selling at a few shillings, and the 
five pound preference at two pounds ten. When I left the 
ordinary and preference were both at par. 

I mention this incident mainly to explain the intimacy 
that grew up between myself and Mr. Dunlop, with whom 
I had many chats about the great invention by which 
bicycles were made serviceable and motors possible. Later 
still the pneumatic tyre was commandeered by the 
aeroplane. There is certainly no man now living who has 



26o RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

contributed more to the convenience, comfort and innocent 
enjoyment of the world at large than J. B. Dunlop. 

It is not necessary to describe Mr, Dunlop's appearance. 
That broad, low, knobby forehead and flowing beard are 
familiar to the world. There are more portraits of him 
abroad than any man, reigning kings alone excepted. Kings 
have their portraits on coins and postage stamps; Mr. 
Dunlop's face is stamped, and a good likeness too, on every 
Dunlop tyre that is sold the wide world over. 

Very slow of speech is Mr. Dunlop, with a genius for 
natural science which almost seems instinctive, for he reads 
few books. In the course of many conversations he told me 
the full, true and particular account of the invention of 
the pneumatic tyre. 

At the time of the invention he was practising as a 
veterinary surgeon in Belfast, and a little while before he had 
stamped out pleuro-pneumonia in his district, an achieve- 
ment of which he is as proud as he is of his tyre. 

Mr. Dunlop has often described himself to me as a man 
with a microscope mind and eye whom no trifle could escape. 
He noticed that the solid rubber tyres of an old side-steering 
tricycle ridden by his little son Johnny cut deeply into the 
soft ground. " What is hard on the ground," he said to 
himself, " must be hard on the rider," and he set to work to 
find something that would be easier for both. 

He resents the common rumour that the pneumatic tyre 
was invented solely for the comfort of a delicate boy. His 
son, he declares, was never delicate, and he emphatically 
denies the imputation that, intending only to diminish 
vibration, he discovered speed by accident. From the 
first, he declares, he knew that the two things must go 
together. 

What he wanted was a broader, lighter and more elastic 
tyre than rubber, a tyre that would glide with less friction 
over the ground and involve less effort for the rider. After 
careful thought he came to the conclusion that compressed 
air was the only material that would answer the desired 
conditions. 

All the same, his son was the direct cause of the invention. 



DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE 261 

He chanced to say to his boy, " Some day, when I have time, 
I will make you wheels that will go faster than any bicycle 
in town." 

That settled it. In season and out of season the boy insisted 
on the promise, and Mr. Dunlop, though a very busy man, 
had to make or find time to redeem it. 

" It was a very primitive beginning," he told me. " I 
cut a square piece from a broad plank, knocked off the 
corners and rounded it to a wheel. I was, fortunately, 
accustomed before this to work in rubber. I always made 
my own rubber gloves and any other little instrument 
required in my profession. In constructing the first 
pneumatic tyre I had to make everything I needed. There 
was no tube to be bought of the kind I wanted, so 
I made one for myself with a thin sheet of rubber and an 
adhesive solution. This I wound round my wooden wheel, 
sticking on a bit of the tubing of a baby's feeding-bottle for 
a valve. But if I had tried to inflate this unprotected tube 
it would have swelled like a bladder until it burst. I 
needed an outer covering. My wife provided me with a 
strip of an old grey linen dress, which was exactly what I 
wanted. This I passed over the rubber air tube and tacked 
it neatly and lightly to the sides of the wheel. Then I 
blew it hard with an air-pump and tied up the valve. So the 
very first Dunlop pneumatic tyre was complete. 

" The test was as primitive as the wheel. I arranged a 
trial gallop in my own back yard, with only stablemen for 
spectators. Taking off the front wheel of my boy's tricycle, 
I rolled it with all my force down the yard. It ran about 
three-quarters of the distance before it tottered and fell. 
At the first trial the pneumatic bolted off the course and 
dashed with great force into a wall. But at the second trial 
it ran straight and fast the whole length of the yard, struck 
the wall at the other end and came back nearly half-way to 
the starting-point. The stablemen declared that it went of 
its own accord, and that the further it went the faster it ran. 

" It is easy to understand," said Mr. Dunlop, " that there 
was much to be done before the pneumatic tyre could be 
made serviceable. My son Johnny had the first pneumatic- 



262 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

tyred tricycle ever made, a model which we still preserve. 
The ease and speed with which he rode naturally attracted 
attention, and by degrees I contrived to fit the wheels to a 
bicycle. Everything I needed was still to be made with my 
own hands, and I had to invent all the accessories as I went 
along, including a valve, which in principle is the same as 
that in use to the present day on bicycle and motor. 

" But if it was a hard thing to invent and construct the 
pneumatic tyre, it was a harder thing still to get people to 
ride it, and hardest of all to get them to buy it." 

At last, by dint of untiring patience, Mr. Dunlop secured 
a public trial for his great invention. The Belfast College 
sports in 1889 was the turning-point in the career of the 
pneumatic tyre. The chief event of the day was a mile 
bicycle race, for which the prize was a superb gold watch 
presented by Sir William Wallace. 

The event brought cycling champions together from all 
parts of the three kingdoms. It is interesting to note that 
amongst the competitors in this contest were young Arthur 
Du Cros, then Irish champion, and his brothers Alfred and 
Harvey, junior, and amongst the spectators was Harvey 
Du Cros, the chief promoter and present chairman of the 
Dunlop Company. 

A young Belfast cyclist. Bill Hume, had also entered for 
the contest, and had agreed for a consideration to ride a 
bicycle fitted with pneumatic tyres. He was regarded as 
an absolute outsider for the race. 

Mr. Dunlop has frequently, in his own deliberate fashion, 
described to me that memorable event. 

No man is a prophet in his own country, still less in his 
own city, and poor Bill Hume was greeted with a storm of 
good-humoured chaff when he appeared on his ungainly 
machine with the " rag and rubber tyres," as they were 
contemptuously nicknamed. " I was a bit ashamed of them 
myself," Mr, Dunlop confessed, " they looked so clumsy 
beside the neat rubber, and I hid myself away with Johnny 
at the back of the crowd." 

The race was four laps, and for the first lap Bill Hume 
kept discreetly in the rear. The laughter followed him all 



DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE 263 

round the course. " Go it, old mud cart ! " echoed from the 
crowd as he went by. " No wonder he's slow," shouted a 
voice, " sure, his mare is in foal." 

But when Bill Hume in the second round began to creep 
up through the competitors, ridicule gradually gave place to 
amazement. When the third round was reached only the 
two Du Cros were in front of him. The bell rang for the last 
lap, and he closed up on the leaders. Then surprise gave 
place to excitement and excitement to enthusiasm. Two 
hundred yards from home, with a wonderful spurt, Hume 
reached and passed the leaders one after another as if they 
were standing still, and won by sixty yards, amid such 
thunders of applause as were never hear-d on the college 
grounds before or since. 

" He has a devil bottled up in those tyres," was the 
comment of a bookmaker who lost heavily on the event. 
There were four other bicycle contests that day, and Bill 
Hume on his " rag and rubber " tyres won them all. 

It is not necessary to trace the further history and 
triumphs of the pneumatic tyre as narrated to me in detail 
by Mr. Dunlop ; but it is interesting to note that not until 
long afterwards, when his tyre 'had become world-famous, 
that either bicycle or tricycle was ridden by the inventor. 

Long after the Dunlop Company was floated came the 
startling discovery of a previous invention of a pneumatic 
tyre. In point of fact, there never was a valid patent for the 
Dunlop pneumatic tyre : anyone that chose could make 
and sell it, asking no leave, paying no royalty. 

Here surely is the most astounding part of this astounding 
story. It was strange enough that any one man should have 
thought of running vehicles on wheels of compressed air, it 
is almost incredible that two men should independently hit 
on the same idea. 

Thompson was the name of the unappreciated genius who 
lived thirty years before his time, and who, like the second 
inventor of the pneumatic tyre, was a Scotchman. Mr. 
Dunlop might well have exclaimed : " Cursed be they who 
think our thoughts before us ! " for Thompson's invention 
spoiled the Dunlop patent. 



264 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

If he had been more detailed in his specifications, Mr. 
Dunlop believes that he would have secured a valid patent. 
But how was he to guess that another man had been there 
before ? Huge as was the financial success of the Dunlop 
tyre, it would have been multiplied a hundredfold if the 
monopoly for a pneumatic tyre could have been secured. 
" If my patent was valid," said Mr. Dunlop, " we would have 
earned money enough to pay the National Debt." 

*More than once Mr, Dunlop has expressed to me his bitter 
disappointment that Ireland has profited so little by the 
invention. The intention of the company was to keep the 
manufacture of its tyres in Dublin, but their good intention 
was defeated by the Dublin Corporation. 

A disagreeable, though not unwholesome, smell was 
created by the necessary smearing of the tubing with a 
solution of rubber dissolved in naphtha. The Dublin Corpora- 
tion prosecuted the company for creating a nuisance. The 
company won, but the Corporation threatened an appeal. 
As a result the manufactory was shifted to Coventry, and 
the gigantic industry was lost for ever to the Irish 
metropolis. 

It was the inevitable penalty of Mr. Dunlop's success and 
reputation that he should be plagued for advice and assist- 
ance by a myriad of inventors in varying stages of insanity. 
One instance perhaps deserves mention in the briefest 
possible outline. 

Some time ago he got a letter with a Rotterdam postmark 
on the envelope, in which the writer claimed to be the joint 
inventor of the pneumatic tyre. As he had never been to 
Rotterdam in his life and had never seen or heard of the 
claimant, Mr. Dunlop paid no heed to the letter. It was 
followed by a personal visit, in which the claim was elo- 
quently albeit incoherently urged. Both he and his son 
came to the conclusion that the visitor whom they bowed 
politely to the door was mad. They were right in that ; they 
were wrong in thinking that they would see or hear no more 
of him. 

Some days later, as Mr. Dunlop returned from Dublin, 
heated by a bicycle ride in the hot sunshine, he was met on 



DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE 265 

his way to the bathroom by his wife with the news that the 
mad claimant was waiting for him in the dining-room. The 
man looked excited, she noticed, and both his pockets were 
dragged down as by some heavy weight. 

Mrs. Dunlop has long been in very fragile health, but, as 
the event shows, she has the courage of a lioness, or to put 
it more strongly still, of a true woman when those she loves 
are in danger. 

" I will keep the man engaged," she said to her husband, 
" while you go for the police." 

" First," Mr. Dunlop urged, " get him to put his claim in 
writing." He hoped by the device to engage the madman's 
time and attention until he should have completed the 
arrangements for his entertainment. 

But the lunatic was equal to the occasion. He promptly 
handed over to Mrs. Dunlop an elaborate document ready 
written. 

The husband and wife read it together outside the door, 
and quickly lit on the threat that he would " enforce his 
claim at the point of the pistol." 

Thereupon, without more ado, Mrs. Dunlop dispatched her 
husband on his bicycle for the police, while she went back 
to entertain the armed lunatic in the dining-room. 

" Mr. Dunlop would be in presently," she explained. 
She was sorry to keep him waiting. Would he not take a 
chair ? She offered him the deepest, softest, most luxurious 
arm-chair in the room, and he sank down among the cushions. 

The lunatic grew restless, and she soothed him with 
plausible apologies for her husband's absence. Once, while 
she stood by the window that looked out on the road, she 
saw a policeman go slowly by. The temptation was strong 
to beckon him to her aid. But measuring the policeman 
with her eye, she found him shorter, smaller and slighter 
than the gaunt madman that sat watchful in the arm-chair. 
Moreover, caution whispered that even the beckoning 
motion of her hand might wake the quick suspicion and the 
deadly fury of insanity. 

So she let the long moments of agonized expectancy go 
by until after hours, as it seemed to her, minutes as the clock 



266 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

counts time, her husband returned with four stalwart 
poHcemen. It was Mrs. Dunlop that ushered them into the 
dining-room, covering their advance, 

" Here are some gentlemen to see you, sir," she said. 
" No, not Mr. Dunlop," she explained, with a touch of grim 
humour, as moving aside she revealed the uniformed visitors. 

He would have leaped upon them instantly, but he had 
sunk low in the cushions and could not readily find his feet, 
and in a moment the compelling hand of the sergeant was 
on his shoulder. 

" You have some claim on Mr. Dunlop ? " the sergeant 
inquired blandly. 

" Claim ? " he puzzled out the word in a pocket dictionary 
he carried with him to assist conversation, " Yes, claim," 
he assented. 

" And you mean to enforce it at the pistol point ? " 

At this the madman's right hand dived into the bulging 
pocket, perhaps to give practical illustration. But the 
sergeant's grip went down like a flash from his shoulder to his 
wrist and held it tight. 

Then from his right-hand pocket the police drew forth 
two huge six-chambered revolvers, fully loaded, and from 
his left a hundred rounds of ammunition. In a belt under 
his coat was stuck a dagger with a keen-edged blade eleven 
inches long. 

When these pretty instruments were piled together on 
the dining-room table and the handcuffs clicked on the wrist 
of the owner, Mr. Dunlop could appreciate from what peril 
he had been rescued by the heroism of his wife. 

The rest of the story is comparatively commonplace. It 
tells of a trial, a conviction and a lunatic asylum. The 
moral of the tale suggests that kings and presidents are not 
the only folk on whom greatness brings trouble. The man 
that is lifted above his fellows by birth or brains is always 
in danger of being made a cockshot for malice or madness. 
But I think I am safe in saying that the only man that 
ever wanted to do J. B. Dunlop an ill turn is at present in 
a lunatic asylum. 

Some months later he received the following strange 



DUNLOP OF THE PNEUMATIC TYRE 267 

epistle ; but he has not yet made his importunate visitor 
free to resume business relations, 

" The Central Asylum, 

" DuNDRUM, Co. Dublin, 
" Day of I February, 1901. 
" Letter from patient : Th. Prost. 
" To : Mr. John Boyd Dunlop. 
" Address : Aylesbury Road, Donnybrook, Dublin. 

" Villa Thareldaene. 

"Gentleman ! 

" With this I would ask you most kindly if you can 
not make me free from prison, while I would have my 
liberty again, under those circumstances you may not 
refuse it me. As I have heard here, I am now several months 
in prison and which the question has not been so great that 
I shall must stay here whole my life, so I hope. While you 
have promised me much money in being free, I hope you 
will think once good over both things on me. As you have 
acknowledged me a great part of the invention has belonged 
to me we can be than both content and would go directly 
at home by possibility, while it can become here too faticant 
for me in having broken ribs and having been heavy sick. 
You shall well excuse my last visit content over it. I had 
spoke off with your son that we should go together to the 
police and therefore I was surprised, but I hope to be quite 
better when I can go at home. By possibility I shall make 
you then no visit more, and hope in following times the 
business shall go as desired and no quarrelling shall have 
more place. With that I hope to receive soon some response 
and have the pleasure to call me 

" Respectfully, 

" Th. Prost." 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

JUSTIN McCarthy 

Pleasant recollections — A visit to a veteran — Justin McCarthy in exile — 
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good — With our toes on the fender 
— A good talk — The man with many friends — Glimpses of the past — 
A picture gallery of celebrities — All the great men of his generation — 
A delightful literary commission — An amusing incident — Justin's 
candour — An ardent Home Ruler. 

AS I have elsewhere written, there were none of my 
jl\. parHamentary colleagues with whom I was more 
intimate than Justin McCarthy. He lingered on in the 
House for some time after I left it. In March, 1896, I wrote 
to him with regard to some literary project we had on foot 
in connection with the Freeman's Journal, and received the 
following reply : — 

" 73, Eaton Terrace, S.W., 

"March lyth, 1896. 
" My dear Matt, 

" Thank you very much for the information you 
give me concerning the literary project of the Freeman's 
Journal. I hope it may come to something, and I do not 
see why it should not become a distinct success. There 
must surely be a literary public in Dublin who could be 
developed into appreciation of a really good thing, if a good 
thing were put within their reach. 

" But I have to thank you still more and much more for 
your kindly cordial expressions of friendship towards my- 
self. I shall always remember those pleasant little dinners 
we used to have so often in the House of Commons. Now 
you are gone and Sexton is gone, and that particular table 
where we used to sit seems dismal when I settle down there. 
" Very truly yours, 

" Justin McCarthy." 
268 




Photo by Elliot and Fry, London. 



Justin McCarthy 



p. 268 



JUSTIN McCarthy 269 

Years later business called me to London, and I received 
an urgent invitation from my dear old friend to visit him 
at Westgate-on-Sea, to whose bracing air he had been exiled 
by his doctor. The temptation to see him again was irre- 
sistible. 

An incident occurred on the journey from London which 
illustrated to my special advantage in what universal respect 
the genial literary veteran is held. 

I got into talk with a gentleman who was the only other 
occupant of the railway carriage. We discussed Mr. Cham- 
berlain, his views and career and prospects from stand- 
points directly opposed and in language as strong as courtesy 
would allow. In the course of our conversation I chanced to 
mention that I was going to see Justin McCarthy at West- 
gate-on-Sea, and he was warm in praise of his works. 

Now, personally I happen to be the worst traveller in 
the world. Wherever I go I leave a trail of lost luggage 
behind me. So it was quite natural that, when the train 
stopped at Westgate-on-Sea in the midst of an interesting 
conversation and I saw Miss McCarthy waiting for me on 
the platform, I should at once jump out, leaving my bag 
behind me in the rack. Two hours later the bag came back 
by a special messenger from four stations away with a 
polite note from my fellow-traveller intimating that the 
fortunate mention of the fact that I was the guest of Justin 
McCarthy enabled him to restore it. 

I found my dear old friend as well and as strong as when 
I parted from him more than a decade ago in the House of 
Commons, his memory as vivid, his humour as playful, his 
conversation as full of freshness and savour. He was de- 
lightfully situated at Westgate-on-Sea in a comer villa with 
a view of the sea ; a smaller villa over the way serves as a 
guest-house for his week-end visitors from London. Now 
and again, as he told me, he was stirred by an almost irre- 
sistible desire for a last look on Ireland. But the doctor 
insisted on the bracing air of Westgate-on-Sea, and the 
heedth he enjoyed there confirmed the doctor's com- 
mands. 

The weather during my brief stay at Westgate-on-Sea 



270 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

was most propitiously inclement, windy and wet, making 
out-of-door excursions impossible. My kind friends were 
distressed, and I was delighted. They had planned some 
pleasant excursions. I was to see the spot where King 
Canute got himself wet to the skin for the purpose of re- 
buking his flattering courtiers, whom I always thought had 
the best of that experiment. I was to see the spot where 
Julius Caesar landed on the British coast. Indeed, Justin 
assured me he had always regarded the selection of this 
particular spot by the famous invader as a delicate antici- 
patory compliment to himself. 

All these things I was to see, and didn't see and couldn't 
see, and much rejoiced thereat. I had come to visit, not 
Westgate-on-Sea, but Justin McCarthy, and the weather 
kindly decreed that I was to have him all to myself during 
the visit. 

We went to Mass together in the morning in a covered 
vehicle, and left the house no more that day, but sat to- 
gether in his cosy den, book and picture lined, our toes on 
the fender, and talked unheeded hours away. Truly such 
talk was a rare treat. It was the cream of a busy, useful, 
happy life, stretching back almost to the middle of the 
nineteenth century, the abstract and brief chronicle of the 
time. 

There was no taint of personal vanity or personal bitter- 
ness in his reminiscences. His mind, to my thinking, was 
as incapable of harbouring an unworthy thought as the soil 
of Ireland is of harbouring a snake. He had in his time met 
everyone worth meeting and seen everything worth seeing 
in the Old World and the New. 

What a list it was of his personal acquaintances and 
friends ! In politics there were Lord John Russell, Cobden, 
Bright, Gladstone, Disraeli and Bismarck ; in literature, 
Browning, Tennyson, Swinburne, Thackeray, Dickens, 
George Eliot, John Stuart Mill and a host of others. For 
this list makes no pretension to be complete. I have merely 
set out at random the names that cropped up in the course 
of our conversation, and now I bethink myself that the 
category omits such literary giants as Lowell, Emerson, 



JUSTIN McCarthy 271 

Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, with all of whom he 
was on terms of familiar friendship. 

It was pleasant for one who had read and worshipped 
from afar off to meet those great men almost at first hand, 
to be introduced by one who knew them so well ; but it is 
a pleasure not to be passed on to the reader. It would be 
quite impossible to convey in written words the savour of 
our familiar talk. It is the slight touch that completes the 
picture. I knew these men better from some passing phrase, 
some familiar incident, told by one who saw and heard, 
than I had known them in elaborate biography, 

Justin McCarthy was naturally full of admiration for 
Gladstone, with whom he had been brought into specially 
close relations in the Home Rule Parliament, when they led 
the allied forces of the composite majority which carried the 
Bill. He admired, as all must admire, the splendid biography 
of Mr. Morley ; but he seemed to feel, as I myself have felt, 
that it was emphatically " Morley 's Gladstone," not Bos- 
well's, the story of 

A creature far too pure and good 
For human nature's daily food. 

For my own poor part, I should have liked to see that 
stately portrait supplemented by a genial, eminently human 
sketch by Justin McCarthy himself. 

Of John Bright he had much to tell. He considered him 
at his best a greater orator even than Gladstone. " He shot 
his arrow higher," was his phrase. Justin McCarthy's 
editorship of a Liberal London newspaper brought him into 
frequent and friendly communication with John Bright, who 
held a place on the advisory board. In those days John 
Bright's sympathy with Ireland was intense. Even the 
violence of the Fenians did not in the least affect it. The 
most sympathetic of Irish editors was not strong enough 
for this English enthusiast. 

" We have to consider the feelings of our readers and the 
interests of the paper," explained Justin McCarthy. 

" We have, first of all, to consider the interests of truth 
and justice," retorted John Bright. 

John Stuart Mill, of whom he had many charming things 



A 



272 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

to tell, was not less earnest than John Bright in his Irish 
sympathies. I had a wonderful picture of this shy, retiring 
scholar and philosopher taking active part in a boisterous 
demonstration in favour of amnesty for Irish political 
prisoners. 

Tennyson, Justin McCarthy found a little stiff and self- 
conscious of his own genius — 

As if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 

But Browning, whom he knew more intimately, he described 
as the most unostentatious and charming of companions, 
full of human S3nnpathy and sprightly humour. In Brown- 
ing's everyday talk I learned there was no touch of the 
verbal obscurity that is such a stumbling-block to the 
uninitiated, myself among the number. 

Justin McCarthy's first meeting with Bismarck was 
specially memorable to him by reason of the unavailing 
toil with which he furbished up his German for the ordeal. 

To his surprise and delight, Bismarck, speaking in ex- 
cellent English, bade him talk in that language, if he had 
no objection. 

" I am very proud," the great German said, " of the 
extent and variety of my English. I flatter myself that I 
could interchange slang with a London cabman." 

In America Justin McCarthy's experiences were as varied 
and as agreeable as at home. He told me that on one 
occasion he was able to confound a Yankee who was boast- 
ing somewhat arrogantly of his knowledge of the States by 
the quiet intimation that he, an Irishman, had travelled 
through and through every State in the country, and had 
visited almost every great town to be found on their 
maps. 

The Yankee guessed that " left him standing." 

One American literary experience Justin McCarthy had 
was as delightful as can well be imagined. 

On his first trip to New York he submitted " a longish 
short story " for publication to Harper's Magazine, and was 
gratified not merely by a notification of the acceptance of 
the story with a handsome accompanying cheque, but by 



JUSTIN McCarthy 273 

the further intimation that the editor would be glad if he 
could make it convenient to call at the office. 

" Of course," he said, " I made it convenient to call. 
What young author could resist so flattering and so pro- 
mising an invitation ? " 

The conversation opened with a compliment. The editor 
was delighted with the story. Did the author think he 
could let him have some more about the same length on 
commission ? " 

The author rather thought he could. About how many 
did the editor require ? 

" Shall we say about a hundred ? " replied the editor. 

" You may imagine my amazement and delight," said 
Justin McCarthy, rejoicing in the retrospect of that 
magnificent piece of good fortune. 

In truth, it was a splendid commission, and it worked 
itself out magnificently to the last word of the hundred 
stories and the last dollar of the hundred cheques. 

A scribbler of fiction myself in a small way, I declare I 
can imagine no more fascinating experience for an author. 

Justin McCarthy wandered at his own sweet will through 
the wide and variegated regions of the United States, 
moving where he liked, staying where he liked, idling when 
he liked and working when he liked, finding in his wander- 
ings and idlings the local colour for the hundred stories, 
whose price far overpaid the expenses of the unexampled 
holiday. I had myself a vicarious delight in listening to so 
delightful an experience. 

So it chanced that Justin McCarthy made friends in 
America as many and as distinguished as at home. 

As our day slid by in desultory and delightful gossip, 
whose even flow never halted or lagged, the signed photos 
on the walls, the signed books on the shelves or tables, were 
fertile in reminiscences. 

Just one illustration, and I have done. In a conspicuous 
place over the chimneypiece I noticed a portrait of an old 
lady in whose face sweetness and dignity were wonderfully 
combined. She was, I learned, the wife of Lord John Russell, 
who was a very special friend of Justin McCarthy's, and had 



274 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

sent him this portrait with a warm expression of regard a 
Httle before her death. Our talk naturally switched on 
from her to Lord John Russell, whom Justin McCarthj;' knew 
well, and so we were carried back to the days of the great 
Napoleon, for Lord John Russell knew Napoleon, and as a 
young man visited him at Elba, 

On that occasion, as Lord John afterwards told Justin 
McCarthy, Napoleon bade the English people beware of 
Wellington. 

" A few more victories," he said, " and Wellington will 
grow so popular with the army that he will seize the crown." 

It was in vain that Lord John strove to explain that the 
British Constitution rendered such a thing impossible. 

Napoleon merely smiled and shook his head as one that 
knew better. 

While we talked there came to our ears the faint patter 
of a typewriter from an adjacent room, where Justin 
Huntly McCarthy was busy translating into drama his 
charming novel " The Dryad." At dinner-time he told 
us triumphantly that he had completed an act and a bit 
over while we had idled through the day with our feet 
on the fender. 

But be it not thought that Justin McCarthy habitually 
dawdled. He lived his life out to the last as vigorous in 
work and enjoyments as in the days of his youth. Almost 
to the last he partook of the mild dissipations of Westgate- 
on-Sea, which, by the way, regards itself as a " genteel 
watering-place," by no means to be confounded with neigh- 
bouring Margate. 

One story he told me as illustrating the courtesy of the 
locality, and possibly its lack of humour. 

A lady spoke in strong condemnation of society fibs. She 
was specially hard on her own sex for their lack of candour 
in regard to their age. 

Justin McCarthy cordially agreed, and gave a personal 
illustration. To appreciate this personal allusion it must be 
remembered that he was nearer to five feet in height than six. 

" I quite concur with you, madam," he said gravely. 
" I never practise those subterfuges myself. I never deny 



JUSTIN McCarthy 275 

that I am over forty years of age, and never pretend to be 
more than five feet eleven and a half inches in height." 

She looked at him in mild amazement. Politeness forbade 
further reference to the question of age. 

" I should never have thought, Mr. McCarthy," she said 
meekly, " that you were quite five feet eleven and a half 
unless you told me so yourself." 

But, of course, his chief resource and enjoyment in his 
enforced retirement were his beloved books. His son and 
daughter fortunately shared his taste. They were a literary 
triumvirate who in writing and reading found their chief 
enjoyment. Of Justin Huntly McCarthy's triumphs in 
fiction and the drama there is no need to speak. Miss 
McCarthy has made on her own account but one incursion 
into print — a charming sketch of Parnell. But she may be 
said, in a sense, to have collaborated with her father in all 
his later works. 

For there fell on him in his old age one of the sorest trials 
of a literary man. His eyesight grew so weak that both 
reading and writing were strictly forbidden. 

His daughter's unremitting kindness, he assured me, 
smoothed away even this misfortune. She read to him, 
hunted up his references and corrected his proofs. Her 
father was fervent in her praise. " I could do nothing with- 
out her," he said. " She is so quick, so patient, so fertile 
in helpful suggestion." 

The Irish exiles at Westgate-on-Sea, all three, were keenly 
alive to anything that appertains to Ireland. Justin 
McCarthy, when I last saw him, was as deeply interested 
in the Home Rule Bill, as earnest for its success, as when 
he led the Irish party to victory in the memorable session 
when Home Rule received the deliberate sanction, not to 
be forgotten or recalled, of the House of Commons. 

" No reform," he said to me at parting, " that has once 
received the sanction of the House of Commons has ulti- 
mately failed to become the law of the land." 



CHAPTER XXIX 
RANDOM REVIEWS 

The book and the author — Jetsam and flotsam — Treasure -trove — Authors 
I have heard from— Una Silberrad — Jane Barlow — Conan Doyle — 
Critics I have heard from — Ohver Wendell Holmes — Justin McCarthy 
—Blowing my own trumpet. 

AMONGST the miscellaneous duties of an editorial writer 
L on the Freeman's Journal was the reviewing of books, 
for which the only remuneration was the possession of the 
volume reviewed. A big bundle of books arrived weekly 
from the London office, and were dealt out among the 
writers to whom the work of reviewing was entrusted. They 
were trashy novels for the most part, for which there was 
no competition amongst the critics. Fortunately, it was 
not necessary to read them through. A mild complimentary 
paragraph could always be contrived after a few minutes' 
glance through the pages. Now and again among this 
jetsam and flotsam of frivolous fiction I discovered a trea- 
sure. Though our usual notice of a novel by an un- 
known writer was a bald paragraph, it was a keen delight 
to me when I came across a really good first story to 
try to repay the pleasure it gave me by an appreciative 
review. 

Among the books I met in this fashion amid a pile of 
rubbish were Una Silberrad's " Enchanter," Mason's 
" Courtship of Morrice Buckler " and Maurice Hewlett's 
" Forest Lovers." I, at least, had never heard of the 
writers before the books came to my hands for review, and 
it pleases me to remember that I appreciated them at the 
time. 

Now and again, too, I received a kindly letter from the 
author whose book I had reviewed. Mr^ Maurice Hewlett 
was unduly grateful for my praise of his " Forest Lovers." 

276 



RANDOM REVIEWS 277 

Miss Una L. Silberrad wrote from Sunnycroft, Essex, to 
thank me for my review of " The Enchanter." 

" You see," she wrote, " it is the first long tale I have 
written. I began it when I was twenty-three, and wrote it 
mostly on Sunday afternoons. As a consequence it was a 
very long time in writing, and got to be somewhat dis- 
cursive in style. I am very glad indeed you overlooked the 
faults, and really liked * The Enchanter.' 

" Again thanking you, 

" Believe me, faithfully yours, 

" Una L. Silberrad." 

In a subsequent letter she wrote : — 

" Many thanks for the book you sent me. I shall read it 
with the greatest interest, and value it always as a sort of 
token of the kind welcome extended to an embryo author 
by one of wider experience and more assured position in the 
world. I wonder if the public ever share the writer's opinion 
of what is his best work ? I hope it (and the publishers) 
will share mine with regard to the novel I have just finished 
after only eight months' work. I do not know if it is a 
good tale or a bad one, but it could not be other than it is, 
and there- is a character in it whom it is just a treat to know. 
But perhaps one day I will have the pleasure of sending 
you a copy, and you can judge for yourself. 

" Again thanking you for your great kindness, 

" Believe me, faithfully yours, 

" Una L. Silberrad." 

Authors, like parents, often make favourite children that 
are not the best of the family. To my thinking, at least, 
the second novel was not equal to the first. 

Miss Jane Barlow, who understands and interprets the 
Irish character more faithfully and more charmingly than 
any writer I know, in the following letter confesses to the 
same weakness. 

" Dear Mr. Bodkin," she wrote, " Many thanks for your 
kind words about the ' Irish Idylls.' I am glad that you like 
' Strangers at Lisconnel.' Perhaps I am inclined to favour 



278 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

it because it was, like most sequels, less successful than the 
earlier volume ; so my sentiment is like Francis' towards 
Cordelia : ' Most choice forsaken and most loved despised.' " 

How delicately she insinuates that she was right in her 
estimate ! Cordelia was certainly the best of her family. 

The author's letter I value most was one received from 
the great master of fiction, having written about one of his 
stories, " A Duet with an Occasional Chorus " : — 

" Dear Sir, 

" I can hardly thank you enough for your kindly 
championship. I value it the more because the book has 
been somewhat mishandled by the critics. They would not 
judge it from a point of view of atmosphere, but of con- 
struction and incident, which is, as you have observed, a 
wrong standpoint. 

" Your opinion helps me to believe that I have to some 
extent done what I set out to do. 
" Thanking you once again, 

" Yours very truly, 

" A. CoNAN Doyle." 

At this time I was myself a humble writer of books. I 
began with a short story contrived to fill a gap in a Christ- 
mas Number when I was acting editor of United Ireland. 
The result was, after a little while, a little volume entitled 
" Poteen Punch " appeared. My ambition as a story-teller 
was stimulated by the following letter received a short time 
after the publication of the book : — 

" Dear Sir, 

" Among the heap of books which I found on my 
table, after returning from my summer residence, is one less 
dreary in aspect than most of the great pile. It is ' Poteen 
Punch,* which is a welcome relief from the dulness with 
which I have to struggle. Please accept my thanks for the 
little volume of pleasant stories, and believe me, 
" Very truly yours, 

" Oliver Wendell Holmes." 



RANDOM REVIEWS 279 

My first long story, " Lord Edward Fitzgerald," was not 
merely published serially, but written serially amid the 
stress of other and more urgent work. Subsequently it was 
revised and published in book form by Messrs. Chapman and 
Hall, I was surprised and delighted at its reception by the 
critics. The publishers' acting director, Mr. Oswald Craw- 
ford, described it as " their success of the season." 

My next novel, " White Magic," had the unique distinc- 
tion that every line of it was written in the House of Com- 
mons in the intervals of Press and parliamentary labours. 
In a column-long article the Daily Telegraph unduly praised 
it, but the public preferred the first. 

It is not my intention to run through the score or so of 
books I have written from time to time. I may mention 
that, in my opinion, " A Stolen Life " is the best of the lot, 
and this opinion was, I think, shared by Mr. Justin McCarthy, 
whose view carries weight. 

" My dear Matt," he wrote when the book appeared, 
" I cannot criticize ' A Stolen Life.' It fairly carried me 
away. I am ready to believe in hypnotism or anything else 
which is made so real as it is in your book. I greatly admire 
your hero, and I am in love with Eva. I like all the people, 
indeed, except the villain, and he interests me deeply. The 
book is full of charming fancies and subtle thoughts, and 
some of your descriptions, such as those in the woodland 
and riverside scenes, have a refreshing charm about them. 
Indeed, the whole book gave me genuine delight. 
" Ever your sincere friend, 

" Justin McCarthy." 

I must confess that the public and publishers preferred 
my detective stories, which were translated into French, 
German, Swedish and Italian, and republished in America. 
Indeed, what literary reputation I have obtained seems to 
have been obtained in Sweden, where almost all my books 
were republished, even a book of short Irish stories, " Patsey 
the Omadawn," in which the brogue is very prominent. It 
hurts my vanity to be compelled to believe that my popu- 
larity in Sweden must be due to the excellence of the 



28o RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

translation by Mme. Ebba Nordenadler, whose knowledge 
of the Irish dialect and of the English language is certainly 
remarkable. In her very flattering proposal to translate 
" Patsey the Omadawn " she writes : — 

" I understand Mr. Rattigan's language perfectly. It is 
only the word ' pishogue ' that puzzles me a little." 

But this book is a record of things seen and heard, and I 
must try to abstain from blowing my own trumpet, though 
vanity will edge in a few words sideways now and again. 



CHAPTER XXX 
BOHEMIA 

Newspaper office and theatre — A generation of actors — Sothern — The 
inimitable Lord Dundreary — Barry Sullivan — A splendid Richelieu 
and a wonderful Surface — Contrasted with Irving as Richard III — 
Irving's triumphs — College night in Dublin. 

THE theatre is an adjacent province to the newspaper 
office in the pleasant kingdom of Bohemia. Front 
door and stage door are open to the critic, and he has a 
welcome before the curtain and behind it. As I have said 
before, the Pressman does not speciahze in Ireland. He is 
what is known in domestic service as a " general," a man- 
of-all-work, to whom nothing must come amiss. So it hap- 
pened that among my multifarious Press duties I was, with 
brief intermission, for twenty years or so the dramatic critic 
to the principal newspaper in Dublin. In this capacity I 
came to know more or less intimately all the great actors 
of my time, on the stage and off it. 

One of the earliest and pleasantest of those experiences 
was my meeting with Sothern. Few actors can wholly 
divest themselves of the atmosphere of the theatre, in which 
the chief part of their life is spent. Sothern, as I remember 
him, was a most glorious exception to this rule. He shifted 
himself into and out of his characters with the most con- 
summate ease. On the stage and off it he was equally 
natural. 

He was in his own person as amusing, as original, as 
wholly delightful as Lord Dundreary, whom he created. 
Moreover, he was the one actor I ever met who as a speaker 
was wholly unaffected and spontaneous. His little speeches 
to the audience, when called before the curtain as Lord 
Dundreary, were as good as anything in the play. Nor was 



282 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

it in the least surprising to learn that he had himself built 
up from the unstable foundation of a few dozen lines the 
part which he played so inimitably. 

Once I remember asking him the stock question which of 
his many characters he preferred. 

" I enjoy David Garrick most," he said ; " but I know 
I play Lord Dundreary best. If I ever live in men's memory 
after I am gone, it will be as Lord Dundreary. When 
other actors act the part, the kind old playgoers will say, 
' You should have seen poor Sothem in it.' " 

Barry Sullivan flourished (" flourished " is exactly the 
word) a little before my time, but he still held the stage 
gallantly against the younger generation who were knock- 
ing at the door, and I had many opportunities of seeing him 
in many different parts. He was an actor of the old school, 
with a curious up-and-down inflexion in his voice, an in- 
flexion known only to the stage. A glorified barn-stormer 
was Barry Sullivan, yet capable withal of a force and 
passion that ranked him with great actors. I have seen 
few things finer of its kind than magnificent Barry as 
Cardinal Richelieu when he draws the sacred circle round 
the trembling maid and threatens to " launch the curse of 
Rome " upon the head of the terrified king. No wonder 
the " gods " roared their applause. 

How easily a critic may be mistaken in an actor's apti- 
tudes ! I remember Barry Sullivan was billed for Charles 
Surface in the " School for Scandal," and I anticipated, I 
must confess, a burlesque performance. Never was a man 
more mistaken. I went to scoff : I remained to praise. 
Seldom, if ever, have I seen a more spirited performance of 
the part — light, easy, graceful, with a touch of that devil- 
may-care recklessness with which Sheridan (the greatest 
writer of comedies in the language except Shakespeare) has 
endowed it. 

Barry Sullivan's sun was setting when Henry Irving's 
was rising, and, naturally, Sullivan did not like Irving and 
affected to ignore him. Mr. Grossmith told me that Sullivan 
could never be got to play with Irving, though often asked. 

Once, at the Savage Club, Barry Sullivan said to Gros- 



BOHEMIA 283 

smith : "I play for the public, sir ; I know nothing about 
Society. There is a young fellow, I cannot think of his 
name for the moment — bless my soul, I'll forget my own 
name next — that young fellow at the Lyceum " 

" Irving," suggested Grossmith. 

" Ah, yes ; Irving. Well, he has got on wonderfully. If 
I had these legs and went into Society, it would increase 
my reputation." 

" I remember once an amusing incident in Barry Sullivan's 
performance of ' Hamlet,' " said Mr. Grossmith. " The 
first gravedigger was a novice, and was overpowered at the 
thought of playing with the great Barry Sullivan. ' Whose 
skull is that ? ' asked Barry in his deepest and most tragic 
tones. ' I'm sure I don't know, sir,' the gravedigger an- 
swered. ' I had it all in my head a moment ago, but it is 
clean gone.' 

" ' Alas ! poor Yorick,' said Barry Sullivan, finding his 
own cue. But the frightened gravedigger did not venture 
to get out of the grave. He fled under the stage, and the 
effect on the audience was that Ophelia was buried on top 
of him 

There was, indeed, a startling contrast in the methods of 
the two great actors, Sullivan and Irving. It struck me 
most, I remember, in the love scene between Richard III 
and Anne at her husband's funeral. As interpreted by 
Barry Sullivan, the scen« was broad farce. His courtship 
was extravagant beyond the verge of absurdity. He leered 
at the mourning lady triumphantly as he spoke his asides 
to the audience, who responded with yells of delighted 
laughter. 

The approving cry of one of his admirers in the gallery, 
" Bravo, Barry ! That's the way to put the commether on 
her ! " made a most appropriate comment on the perform- 
ance. 

Irving, on the other hand, was at his best in this strange 
scene. It was the very perfection of hypocrisy. There was 
overwhelming passion in his voice and gesture when he 
declared : — 



284 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

" Your beauty was the cause of that effect. 
Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep ; 
To undertake the death of all the world 
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom." 

You felt he could not fail to carry the heart of any woman 
by storm. The incredible became credible as one listened. 
It seemed natural, inevitable, that the fascinated Anne, 
even at the bier of her murdered husband, should yield her 
heart to the passionate pleadings of his murderer. 

I have seen Irving in almost every part he played, and I 
think he played Richard III best of all. The superhuman 
energy, the grim, grotesque humour of the character suited 
him. Irving was supreme in melodrama (witness " The 
Bells "), and Richard III is the greatest melodrama that 
was ever written. 

It is pleasant to recall that Irving got his first real recog- 
nition in Dublin, playing Digby Grand in " The Two Roses," 
and that he was always a prime favourite in the Irish 
metropolis. 

A very special compliment was paid him by Trinity 
College, a compliment accorded once before in its entire 
history to the great Irish actress Miss Helen Faucit when 
she played Antigone in Dublin. 

On behalf of the College an illuminated address was pre- 
sented to Mr. Irving by its senior representative, and it was 
decreed that there should be " a college night " at the 
theatre, and that the dons and the students should attend 
wearing a distinctive red ribbon badge in their button-holes. 

Never have I seen greater enthusiasm in a theatre than 
on that memorable night. It was a splendid performance. 
Irving was at his best, and when he came before the curtain 
at the close of the play it was a long quarter of an hour 
before he could get a hearing. He seemed quite overpowered 
by his reception. If he was playing a part then, he certainly 
played it superlatively. 

" There are some rewards and some honours," he said, 
" so unexpected that they may well give the happy recipient 
a new zest for existence. Such honours you have heaped on 
me, my kind and generous friends For the welcome you 



BOHEMIA 285 

have given me on these classic boards, and a warmer than 
you have given me here to-night, was never given to any 
artist, ahve or dead, for the distinction your proud old 
University has bestowed on me, a distinction that shall be 
remembered as long as the annals of our stage shall last, 
accept the warmest and most earnest thanks that an over- 
flowing heart tries in vain to utter." 



CHAPTER XXXI 
HAMLETS I HAVE MET 

The many-sided prince — Barry Sullivan — Tom King — Sir Henry Irving — 
Booth — Benson — H. B. Irving — Martin Harvey — Forbes -Robertson 
— Confession and atonement — Robertson the greatest of them all — 
Stage traditions and interpretations — Slow music-— Taking a call. 

IT is the natural instinct of the dramatic critic to judge 
all great actors by their Hamlet. In this many-sided 
character all the passions, thoughts, feelings of our com- 
plex nature find scope and breathing space. Filial sorrow 
of the son in the presence of death, freezing terror of 
the mortal in the presence of the supernatural, pro- 
found, spirit-subduing reverie, mad, frantic passion, with a 
thousand shifting gradations of emotion, are all displayed. 
To every actor the character gives room for the development 
of his highest powers, while not even the greatest actor can 
hope to perfectly sustain it. Thus his merits and his short- 
comings are made apparent. 

I have seen all the great Hamlets and all the famous 
Hamlets (a far more numerous body) of the last thirty-five 
years. Barry Sullivan, Tom King, Benson, Booth, Tree, 
Irving, Martin Harvey, Forbes-Robertson and others. The 
list is a long one, and I have made no attempt to draw it 
up in the order of merit. Almost every Hamlet I have seen 
had some special quality of his own. Barry Sullivan, stately 
declamation ; Tom King (now hardly ever heard of), a royal 
presence and a majestic stride — " a splendid strut," one of 
his humble admirers called it. In the scenes of white-hot 
passion Irving was perfect ; and his son is scarcely less 
perfect. Tree displays marvellous versatility. Harvey is 
the meditative student. 

In the scenes that made most demand on a great actor's 
power Booth was at his best. He realized, as far as man 

286 



HAMLETS I HAVE MET 287 

could, the soul-searching power of awful soliloquy, " To be, 
or not to be ? " It is not possible to describe the change 
of tone and feature with which the wrestling with life and 
death and intense mental agony of the struggle were brought 
home so vividly to the hearts of his hearers. One little 
touch struck me as almost too natural to be the result of 
art. While Hamlet's thoughts run smoothly he lies back 
in his chair and speaks in a tone of philosophic musing, 
but, startled by the sudden fear, " Perchance to dream. 
Aye, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what 
dreams may come ! " he leaps from his seat and paces the 
stage with the quick, irregular stride of restless agitation. 
In the scene with Ophelia the yearning tenderness of his 
love was ever apparent through the veil of the " antic dis- 
position " he assumes. The audience saw, with deepening 
interest, the piteous struggle waged between his affections 
and his resolve. 

But when all's said and done, of the many Hamlets I 
have seen Forbes-Robertson came nearest to perfection. I 
admired other actors for their several virtues, but he. 

So perfect and so peerless was made up 
Of every creature's best. 

He was, in truth, the Hamlet that Shakespeare imagined 
and Ophelia described : — 

The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's eye, tongue, sword. 
The expectancy and rose of the fair state. 
The glass of fashion and the mould of form. 
The observed of all observers. 

It may be that my estimation of Forbes-Robertson is 
coloured by the over-zeal of the convert. For let the truth 
be spoken, when I saw his Hamlet first, while all London 
was still ringing with applause, I was distinctly disappointed. 

My vanity still prompts the belief that the fault was not 
wholly mine, that his performance has since wonderfully 
grown in essential heat, in power and passion. 

Even then his elocution, gesture, presence and movement 
on the stage were perfect, his voice most musical. But 
somehow to me he seemed " faultily faultless." In the 
most moving scenes I was unmoved. 



288 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

This feeling I embodied in a column of disappointed 
criticism in the next morning's paper. My disappointment 
endured about a year ; then my conversion came. 

Forbes-Robertson was playing in " Othello " at the 
Theatre Royal, and my wife and a lady visitor wanted to 
see the performance, I took them there, and then begged 
to be excused. I concluded, not unnaturally from my 
premises, that if he had not fire enough for Hamlet he could 
never reach the fierce fervour of Othello ; if his Hamlet 
chilled, his Othello would freeze me. 

So I installed the ladies in their places and went off to 
the newspaper office, which was close by, to finish some 
work I had on hand. The work took me a shorter time 
than I had expected, and I was back in time for the last 
two acts of the play. In my life I had never a more delight- 
ful surprise. It was a new revelation of the character of 
Othello. The words the Moor speaks in the play I know 
pretty well by heart, but I had never seen or heard the 
man before as Shakespeare had created him. I had seen 
Salvini in the part (his best), and found likeness and un- 
likeness in Robertson's personation. Both were replete 
with the hot fire of passion, trembling in the voice and 
blazing from the eyes (for where, in my ignorance, I thought 
Robertson must fail he most excelled). But even in the 
whirlwind of passion his dignity was retained. There was 
too much of the wild beast about the Italian's Othello. 
Robertson, in the wildest paroxysm, was essentially a man. 

My enthusiasm took practical form. At the end of the 
play I sent the ladies home by themselves. I returned to 
the office, hunted up and destroyed the somewhat perfunc- 
tory notice that had been written of the performance, and 
sat down after midnight to write a gratuitous column of 
undiluted praise. It was an atonement. 

When I next saw Forbes-Robertson in Hamlet I found 
him even finer than in Othello. Whether the change was 
in me or him, or both, I will not presume to say. 

It is strange how stage traditions hamper the perform- 
ance of Hamlet, and how obediently they are accepted by 
competent managers and great actors. I never saw a ghost 



HAMLETS I HAVE MET 289 

of Hamlet's father that did not represent a decrepit old 
man, 

I am not a stickler for scenic accessories, but, at least, 
they should never contradict the text. Shakespeare de- 
scribes the murdered king as in the prime of mature man- 
hood. " His beard," says Horatio, " was, as I have seen 
it in life, a sable silvered." But the stage ghost has a beard 
as white as snow, and looks far more like the ghost of old 
Polonius than that of Hamlet's warlike sire. Moreover, it 
is the stage custom to turn the limelight full on the appari- 
tion, and limelight is as trying to a ghost as to a lady of 
uncertain age. 

The stage device of emphasizing passion by the shivering 
notes of a violin is always an abomination, but most abomin- 
able of all when Shakespeare is supplemented by the fiddle. 
Still more unpardonable, if that be possible, is the sin of 
Shakespearean actors who come before the curtain " to take 
their call," as the stage phrase has it. Nothing can be more 
grotesque than to see, as I have seen, the unhappy Ophelia 
rise from her newly made grave, and the ghost of Hamlet's 
father return from " sulphurous and tormenting flames," to 
bow and smile to an applauding audience. 

In the scene in which Hamlet bids his mother 

" Look here upon this picture and upon this. 
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers," 

almost every actor has a trick of his own, often absurd, 
always unnecessary, for illustrating the text. Barry 
Sullivan had two preposterous family portraits hung on the 
walls of the Queen's bedchamber, to which he pointed alter- 
nately. But the more approved device, adopted, if I re- 
member rightly by Irving, Tree and, I fear, by Forbes- 
Robertson, is a couple of miniatures in lockets, one worn 
by Hamlet and the other by the Queen-Mother. A moment's 
reflection should surely suffice to show the incongruity of 
condensing Hamlet's description of his father to the tiny 
surface of a miniature— 

" The front of Jove himself. 
An eye like Mars to threaten and command, 
A station like the herald Mercury 
New lighted on some heaven-kissing hill," 



290 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

cannot be contracted into the fraction of an inch. It seems 
plain enough that by the counterfeit presentments Shake- 
speare intended the word-pictures of Hamlet. Hamlet saw 
his father in " his mind's eye " in fashion as he lived, and 
so showed him to the Queen. But stage tradition, however 
absurd, dies hard. I am glad to notice that Martin Harvey 
has emancipated himself from this absurdity. 

While I am about it I may say that the conception of 
the play scene in Hamlet, which is common to all the actors 
I have seen, seems to me to be wholly foreign to the plain 
purpose of the play. Almost from the first Hamlet is shown 
in a frenzy of passion, which would have at once put the 
King on his guard and defeat his own purpose. There is 
no indication of such a frenzy in the text. Hamlet is there 
a sardonic searcher of hearts who watches " the galled jade 
wince " under the lash. A man in an unrestrained frenzy 
of passion would be incapable of the cool mockery of his 
reply to the King. 

" He poisons him in the garden for his estate. His name 
is Gonzago. The story is extant and written in very choice 
Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love 
of Gonzago's wife." 

It seems self-evident that those words should be coolly 
spoken, but every Hamlet I have seen squirms across the 
stage on his stomach and yells the words into the ear of 
the King. Surely Mr. Forbes-Robertson is strong enough 
to break through this curious stage tradition and give us 
the scene as Shakespeare wrote it. There are no such 
anomaHes to be found in his acting of plays — like Shaw's 
wonderful " C^sar and Cleopatra" — of which he is the first 
interpreter. 



CHAPTER XXXII 
MORE ABOUT ACTORS 

" Caesar and Cleopatra " — Forbes-Robertson and Bernard Shaw — ^\''ivacity 
and versatility of Tree — An impromptu interview — Inspiration or 
study — Mr. Balfour's imperturbability — Waller as Monsieur Beaucaire 
— A narrow escape — Criticism of the Prince of Wales — Sir John Hare 
— His opinion of Jefferson. 

I COULD never hope to do justice to Forbes-Robertson 
and his charming wife in the greatest of Bernard Shaw's 
plays, " Csesar and Cleopatra." It is a pet theory of mine 
that there is more varied and genuine delight to be got from 
the reading than the acting of a Shakespearean play. No 
company of actors, however gifted, can quite realize the 
characters for the audience as the imagination of a S5mi- 
pathetic reader realizes them for himself. Almost every 
character in Shakespeare is not merely perfectly drawn, but 
is important to the action of the play, so that a hitch, even 
in a minor part, is apt to throw the whole performance out 
of gear. 

But it is quite different with Shakespeare's " great rival," 
Bernard Shaw. He needs the help of the actor. When I 
read " Caesar and Cleopatra," I found it a curious mixture 
of high-flown extravagance and broad farce, both good of 
their kind. 

Played by Forbes-Robertson and his wife, I recognized 
the play as a work of genius, Caesar's character, as Robert- 
son played it, was a fascinating study of the " superman," 
great enough and wise enough to be good-humoured, 
tolerant and beneficent, willing to be amused by the gambols 
of that smooth, sleek, cruel little tiger-cat Cleopatra. 
Kindly to everybody and everything, but turning all to the 
furtherance of his own ends, and pursuing his purpose 
with insight, forethought and masterful determination, in- 

291 



292 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

exorable as fate. One felt that the Csesar of Robertson's 
acting was greater and truer than the Caesar of Shaw's 
conception. It was the triumph of the actor over the 
playwright. 

Of all the actors I have met, Tree possesses the greatest 
vivacity and versatility. He gives himself to his part with 
the most absolute abandonment. His range of character 
is without limit. From Hamlet to Falstaff, from Falstaff 
to Caliban, nothing came amiss to him. It is hard to be- 
lieve, yet it is none the less true, that he created the success 
of that once popular comedy " The Private Secretary," in 
the character of the anaemic young clergyman, which one 
might fairly suppose to be out of the range of the full- 
blooded vitality which made his Falstaff the finest on the 
stage. 

He told me an amusing little incident of the second night 
of the play, which hung fire on the first performance. It 
occurred to Tree that the blue ribbon of total abstinence 
would be an appropriate adjunct to the Private Secretary. 
But an exhaustive search proved that there was not 
a scrap of blue ribbon to be found on the premises. 
Finally, a bit of tape had to be painted blue to meet the 
emergency. 

I had many chats with Tree on many subjects. He was 
good enough to lunch with me early in our acquaintance, 
tempted thereto, I fancy, by a large collection of Shake- 
spearean engravings, on which I somewhat pride myself. 
Tree was in great form at lunch and after it, full of stage 
wisdom and humorous anecdote. As he was leaving I said 
to him : 

" Your talk to-day was too good to be lost. Shall I make 
an interview of it ? " 

" My dear boy," he answered, " I would be delighted if 
you could ; but you can't." 

" To-night," I replied, " I shall send you a couple of 
columns of proofs for correction." 

The only correction or comment on the proof which I sent 
him was the one word " wonderful," written at the end of 
the proof. 



MORE ABOUT ACTORS 293 

On another occasion I had a long argument with Tree on 
the anomaly of actors " taking their calls during the progress 
of the play," so destroying the stage delusion, which it is 
their special function to create and maintain. During that 
occasion in Dublin when the curtain rose in response to 
applause, there was shown on the stage, not the husband 
and wife just parted in a rage and mysteriously reunited, 
nor the murderer and his victim amicably smiling, but a 
tableau which suggested the continued progress of the 
play. 

I am sorry to add that Sir Herbert, impelled, I doubt not, 
by the insistent folly of the public, has abandoned this 
salutary innovation. 

I remember discussing with Tree the doctrine favoured 
by Coquelin that an actor should put on his stage passions 
like his stage clothes, coolly and conscientiously, with a 
keen eye to their adjustment and effect, that he should be 
always the imperturbable critic of his own performance. 
Sir Herbert repudiated the doctrine. 

" You must for the time being," he said, " in body and 
soul, be the character you act. You move your audience 
in proportion as you are moved yourself." Horace, it will 
be remembered, held the same view : "Si vis me flere 
flendum est primum tibi ipsi." 

Sir Herbert once told me a little incident illustrating 
Mr. Balfour's imperturbability, which, in spite of its irrele- 
vance, is perhaps worth repeating here. 

It happened in the time of the Parnell crisis, on which so 
much depended, when the Irish party were in excited con- 
ference in Committee Room No. 15, and the result was 
awaited with intense eagerness by Liberals and Conserva- 
tives. Mr. and Mrs. Tree happened to be going down for a 
week-end to a country house, where, amongst other eminent 
politicians, Mr. Arthur Balfour was staying. 

" All London was full of the subject," said Tree. " There 
was a buzz of excitement even on the railway platform, and 
an unprecedented rush for newspapers. This gave me a 
happy thought. I bought a pile of papers representing all 
shades of opinion, to help to make my welcome where I was 



294 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

going. When I got to the place there was a scramble for 
the newspapers like a rush on the bank. There was nothing 
else thought of. Everybody stood round reading them. As 
Mr. Balfour, who had come down late, joined the party, one 
of his devoted followers handed him a paper with a look 
that Sidney must have worn when he passed to the other 
fellow that cup of water he wanted so badly for himself. 
Just then the luncheon-gong rang. So far as the rest were 
concerned it rang to deaf ears. But Mr. Balfour, abstract- 
edly, put down his paper unread, and sauntered languidly 
away to his lunch." 

In the character of heroic adventurer there is no actor to 
touch Lewis Waller, and he was at his very best in the part 
of Monsieur Beaucaire. The play fitted the actor, and the 
actor the play, to perfection. It is a dainty and delightful 
piece of work. The dash and daring of one of Dumas' 
novels, with its high-flown love-making and marvellous 
sword-play, is spiced with a delicate flavour of the humour 
of the " School for Scandal." Monsieur Beaucaire is essen- 
tially " a pretty fellow of his hands," a hero that has 
stepped, spick and span, out of a canvas of Watteau, 
whose wit is as bright and keen as his sword, and who 
affects superlatives in his love-making. Of Mr. Waller's 
acting in the part it can only be said that it isn't acting 
at all in the sense that the word is commonly used ; the 
actor disappears in his part. There is no trace left of 
Mr. Waller, only the fascinating Frenchman with his pretty 
broken English, his boyish gaiety, his chivalrous daring and 
his playful humour remains. 

The play was, it will be remembered, a tremendous 
success, and the portrait of Mr. Waller as Monsieur Beaucaire 
was the chief picture of the year at the Royal Academy. 
Even after this lapse of time it may be not without interest 
to recall the account which he gave me in an interview of 
its narrow escape from a disastrous failure. 

" How," I asked him, " did you first fall in with ' Monsieur 
Beaucaire ' ? " 

" I picked him up in an agent's olBce when I went to 
look for something else, ' Here,' said the agent, ' is some- 



MORE ABOUT ACTORS 295 

thing that might suit you.' And when I had read it half- 
way through I bought it." 

" You played it at once, I suppose ? " 

" Not at all. That is the curious part of the story, I had 
it by me a year and a half before I attempted to play it. 
Then I feared I might lose my rights by delay, and resolved 
to put it on the stage." 

" In London ? " 

" Not in London, Honestly, I had not the money to 
start it in London, or the chance. I took it down with me 
to Liverpool, where I was rather a favourite and where I 
expected a good reception, and brought it out well at the 
Shakespearean Theatre. As I said, I expected a big success, 
and I was bitterly disappointed. There was a moderate 
house and moderate applause. The people laughed at the 
right place and clapped at the right place. But all the 
time there was a touch of frost in the air. I felt in my 
bones that the play was not going as it ought to go. Two 
or three managers from the London theatres, including the 
' Comedy,' came down to see the first performance, and 
went back again by the first morning train. There were a 
number of friends of mine in the theatre that night, but 
they did not come round the scenes to congratulate me, as 
I had half expected." 

" Did the papers make up for the public ? " 

" No-0-0," said Waller, with a long emphasis on the vowel. 
" The papers were a shade worse than the public. Not 
abuse, you understand, but just tolerant criticism. Damned 
with faint praise — suggested improving away the whole 
performance." 

" Surely they liked Monsieur Beaucaire himself ; they 
could hardly have missed seeing the merit of that per- 
sonage ? " 

" Tell me what you liked best in him," 

" Well, I think I like best the way the French accent, 
grace and vivacity are preserved," 

" That was just it ; that was the result of just a year 
and a half's practice. I believe I transformed myself into a 
Frenchman. I learned to think in broken English — at least. 



296 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Monsieur Beaucaire's thoughts. Now comes the cruelty. 
Three or four principal Liverpool papers quietly advised 
• me to drop the Frenchman and play it in plain English. I 
was a bit disheartened, because I knew the thing was 
good. 

" After three days of this frost, one afternoon I said to 
my manager, ' I cannot stand it. I must have a game of 
golf, or I'll break down ! ' " 

" Then you play golf ? " 

" Life without golf would not be worth living. Well, I 
went off to the links. As a rule, it takes only half a round 
at golf to make me forget every trouble. This time I went 
round twelve holes before I got rid of Monsieur Beaucaire. 
After that, of course, I forgot everything except how to get 
the ball into the hole. I had a pleasant surprise when I 
came back. As I stepped on the stage the first man I saw 
in front was Charlie Wyndham. That gave me courage. 
I knew the play was good, and I knew that Charlie Wyndham 
would know a good thing when he saw it. I sent him a 
note round, asking him to sup with me after the show. 
I must confess it was a nervous moment for me when 
we met. 

" ' Well ? ' I said, and waited. 

" ' Well,' he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, ' you 
have got a David Garrick play, my boy. Love, humour, 
dash, daring, everything. It is bound to go.' 

" In that moment my fear vanished, for Wyndham knew, 
not his play only, but his London public, and his opinion 
was to me infallible." 

" So it proved ? " 

" Exactly. A few days later I had a letter from the 
manager of the ' Comedy,' who had refused the play, 
reversing his decision and asking me to take it to his 
theatre. I need not tell you what a success it has been 
since." 

The reminiscence is interesting as showing how narrow 
is the line between the success and failure of a good 
play, even after it has reached the stage. It frightens 
one to think how many are smothered unheard of in 



MORE ABOUT ACTORS 297 

the agent's office and " die with all their music in 
them." 

A comment on " Monsieur Beaucaire " from high quarters 
is worth recalling. " One thing struck me with surprise," 
I said to Waller, " and that is that ' Monsieur Beaucaire,' 
whatever the merits of the play, was tolerated, much less 
applauded, in London. The French Prince is the hero, the 
English Duke is the blackleg. The old British boast is re- 
versed in the play, and one Frenchman beats five English- 
men with ease." 

"It is a curious thing," he answered, " that the Prince 
of Wales " (now King of England) " made much the same 
remark to me when he came to my room after he had first 
witnessed the performance. 

" ' Mr. Waller,' he said, ' my opinion of our countrymen 
has been enormously improved since I have seen your 
play.' 

" For a moment I thought his Royal Highness was 
chaffing, if royalty could condescend to chaff, because the 
Englishmen in my play could hardly be considered favour- 
able specimens of the race, and I hinted as much. 

" ' It was not the English on the stage, but the English 
before the footlights I was thinking of,' he answered. ' It 
was a wonderful exhibition of national tolerance and good- 
humour. If you were playing in France a play in which 
one Englishman beat five Frenchmen, or in Germany a play 
in which one Frenchman beat five Germans, they would 
have torn the theatre down about your ears. Our people 
laugh at French humour and applaud French valour with 
perfect impartiality.' " 

Dublin has a reputation for dramatic appreciation, but 
on one occasion it certainly did not live up to its reputation. 
When Hare visited Dublin first with the delightful comedy 
" A Pair of Spectacles," the performance was very coldly 
received by the Dublin Press, and, as a consequence, Sir 
John, who was himself a great admirer of the play, declined 
for some years afterwards to come to Dublin. There was, 
however, one exception to the disparagement. In the paper 
with which I was connected there appeared, I am glad to 



298 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

remember, over a column of enthusiastic appreciation. That 
fact recommended me to the kindness of Sir John when he 
next visited our city. Of all the actors I have met, there 
was none more free from the least trace of stage mannerism 
or affectation. 

In the course of our friendly chats he complained of the 
monotony of long runs. " You have to go down to the 
theatre night after night when other people are going to their 
dinner, and play the same part over and over again until 
sometimes your voice sounds to yourself like a phonograph." 
He was in accord with Tree rather than Coquelin in his 
belief that good acting comes by inspiration rather than by 
consideration. 

" I thoroughly study and realize the man I am to per- 
sonate," he said, " and then give myself wholly into his 
hands and let him play the part for me." 

I never met a man more frank in praise of his brother 
actors. Salvini's Othello he regarded as the most adequate, 
the most powerful Shakespearean personation he had ever 
seen. The power and passion of it in the awful scene 
with lago shook the hearts of the audience. But the 
most miraculous performance, the most absolutely perfect 
acting on the stage in his time, was Jefferson's Rip Van 
Winkle. 

" For one whole act," he said, " Jefferson is practically 
alone on the stage and holds the audience entranced. No 
other actor ever performed such a feat. I saw him act a 
few years ago when I was in America. He is an old man 
now, immensely rich, living on a large farm of his own. 
But he goes back to the theatre to play once in a while, for 
sheer love of it, as he tells me, and whenever he goes the 
theatre is thronged to the doors — six hundred pounds at 
least at each performance. People who have seen ' Rip Van 
Winkle ' as children bring their children to see it as the 
greatest performance of two generations." 

It is a mistake, I learned, to suppose, as is often supposed, 
that Jefferson is merely a one-part actor. " I saw him," 
said Sir John, " billed for Bob Acres in the ' Rivals,' and 
I was actually afraid to go, I was so enchanted with the 



MORE ABOUT ACTORS 299 

Rip Van Winkle, and this was so different. But he was the 
most delightful Bob Acres I ever saw. Of course, I heard 
the story that Jefferson's mind was affected by constantly 
playing Rip Van Winkle, but there is not a word of truth 
in it. He was a most charming man to meet in private life, 
and one of the happiest." 



CHAPTER XXXIII 
STILL ON THE STAGE 

Grossmith — An audience of one — His special gift — Snapshots of Tree, 
Irving and Barrett — The gifts of Gilbert — His two tunes — Martin 
Harvey — A reluctant Bunthorne — Kubelik — A grim coincidence — ■ 
Stage comicalities. 

OF Mr. Grossmith I was always a great admirer, but I 
rather think the best performance of his that I ever 
witnessed was given to an audience of one in a drawing- 
room of the Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, where I had the good 
fortune to be the audience. Never was more wonderfully- 
displayed his faculty of compelling your belief in invisible 
people. 

On this occasion, I remember, he led an imaginary lady 
on his arm to the piano, chatting to her affably while they 
walked. When he arranged her music-stool and turned over 
the pages of her music while she sang I knew she was there, 
though I could not see her, so miraculously, by a thousand 
little gestures and words, did he assure me of her presence. 

" If," he said to me afterwards, " you talk seriously to a 
person in an empty chair, the audience will see the person 
in it ; that's the secret. But I don't leave those things to 
chance, I plan the position beforehand." 

Mr. Grossmith showed me a notebook crammed with 
stray sentences and scraps of music with curious little 
diagrams scattered here and there. " Those are my chairs," 
he said, " with the invisible characters in them." 

He then and there went into a railway carriage, leaving 
his wife and child on the platform. I declare I could see 
the grumpy passenger to whom he apologized as he stretched 
past him to kiss the baby at the door. 

Beerbohm Tree, Henry Irving and Wilson Barrett he 
passed in review with words of friendly praise for each 

300 



STILL ON THE STAGE 301 

of them and snatches of delightful mimicry. For Tree, 
Grossmith professed great friendliness and admiration, de- 
claring him a master of tragedy and comedy. Then, in a 
moment, Tree suddenly appeared before me in action as he 
lived — voice, tone and gesture irresistibly perfect. Irving 
also he thought " great in everything." In moments of 
intense excitement light kindled in the great actor's eyes. 
You could see the passion shining through. " Wilson 
Barrett was a fine actor, and most conscientiously original. 
He studied Irving closely," said Grossmith, " for the pur- 
pose of reversing him in everything he did. 

" If, for example, Irving enters frontways from the right 
wing and his hands hang down this way " (enter Irving as 
described), " Wilson Barrett enters backwards from the left 
wing with his hands over his head, this way," and Wilson 
Barrett made his entrance in turn. 

As might be expected, Grossmith brimmed over with 
enthusiasm when he spoke of Gilbert. " I think Gilbert's 
comic operas the best of all," he said. " I'd go farther. 
In my opinion, his worst — that's not the way to put it, for 
he has no worst — his least good is better than the best 
of any other man. There is no one witl^ such delightful, 
startling, original humour." 

" Which of his did you play in first ? " I asked. 

" ' The Sorcerer.' It came about this way. As the opera 
was originally written, John Wellington Wells was a very 
subordinate part. It was thought that anyone would do 
to sing the patter song, but it developed on rehearsal. Then 
Gilbert resolved to ask me to undertake it. I was doing 
very well in society entertainments, and I actually asked 
time to think it over. Looking back on the incident now, 
and knowing Gilbert as I do, I am surprised that he did 
not write to say that I might take as much time as I liked 
to think it over — that I might keep on thinking over it 
while someone else was pla3nng it. 

" Curiously enough, the ' Sorcerer,' though one of the 
very cleverest of Gilbert's things, did not go at first, and 
I am vain enough to think that I helped to pull it along 
with the teapot scene and dance and with a respectable 



302 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

descent into Hades. ' Pinafore ' did not do well, either, at 
first in London. But it had a tremendous success in America. 
The Americans declared that the Londoners did not know a 
good thing when they got it. Then the Londoners were put 
on their mettle and flocked to the piece, and it ran for two 
years. I had a curious experience in ' Pinafore,' the most 
curious of my career. It was run first by a syndicate. They 
stopped the piece and closed the theatre about Christmas. 
But Mr. D'Oyly Carte, Mr. Gunn, Mr. Gilbert and some 
others reopened the theatre, and set the piece merrily run- 
ning again. Then there was a royal row between the rival 
claimants, and one night, when the opera was in full swing, 
the syndicate invaded the theatre and attempted to carry 
off our scenery. I was singing Sir Joseph Porter's song at 
the time with my chorus of mariners. But the mariners 
were called off suddenly to repel boarders in the wings, and 
with their stage pikes they put the invaders to flight." 

Here Grossmith gave a lightning sketch of a respectable 
invader in full flight with a sharp-pointed spear at his rear. 

" It was in ' Pinafore ' that I had the longest run, nearly 
two years, though I had nearly as long in ' Patience ' and 
' The Mikado.' Long runs are terribly trying to me ; the 
process never becomes mechanical, and it tangles my nerves. 

" I have always got on well with Gilbert. He was most 
kind, though a bit of a martinet, as everyone knows. Some- 
times he took you up short when you least expected it. 
You'd say, for example, ' It's a fine day,' and he'd regard 
that as a personal affront if he was dissatisfied with the 
weather. Then he'd allow no tampering with his work. 
With Sullivan it was different. If a bit of music didn't fit 
well into my dialogue, I could go to Sullivan and ask him 
to change it. But if I asked Gilbert to transpose a line, he 
would look at me and say, ' I suppose you think you could 
write the piece better than I ? ' which I couldn't, nor any- 
one else either." 

Most people, I fancy, know the story of the man that 
wrote to Gilbert that he did not like the title " Ruddygore." 
The author might just as well, the critic thought, have 
called it " Bloody gore." 



STILL ON THE STAGE 303 

Gilbert replied in a short note that was dangerously 
polite : — 

" Dear Sir, 

" If you reflect a little you will perceive that there 
is a difference between ruddy and bloody. For example, if 
I spoke of your ' ruddy cheek,' you would take it as a 
compliment ; whereas if I referred to your ' bloody cheek,' 
you might possibly think me offensive." 

Grossmith intensely admired the " Bab Ballads " (which, 
as Gilbert was in after life fond of recalling, were declined, 
with thanks, by Punch). He knew them, he told me, by 
heart, " backwards and forwards and upside-down." 
" There never was such a master of rhythm," he declared, 
" and of that wonderful humour that trips you up and 
throws you over. Sullivan had some difficulty in setting 
other people's songs, but with one of Gilbert's he went to 
the piano and played the music right off, the rhythm was 
so catching. Of course, you know that Gilbert himself has 
not the slightest notion of music. He declares that he only 
knows two airs ; one is ' God save the King,' and the 
other isn't." I had known that a good, many masters of 
rhyme and rhythm, including Scott and Macaulay, had no 
ear for music, but this was the most astounding example 
of all. 

Personally, I am music deaf, yet one Christmas, early in 
my reporter's days, I wrote the topical songs for the three 
theatres, and in all three they were sung with considerable 
success, though I myself could not tell if every line were 
sung out of tune. My plan was very simple. I wholly dis- 
regarded the music. I just took tl?ie words of a popular song 
and wrote a topical version to the same metre. 

A curious little incident occurred in connection with one 
of those songs. It was sung by a charming little married 
lady, the wife of the proprietor of the theatre. Off the stage 
she was very quiet and shy. In the pantomime she was 
" principal boy," a lively and fascinating " Prince Perfect," 
a clever actress, with a delightful voice. Indeed, I never 
thought much of my own song until I heard her sing it. 



304 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

One evening when I was alone in a box in the theatre 
the door opened, and " Prince Perfect " stepped in, sat 
down beside me and began to thank me for my song. Her 
costume was becoming but by no means voluminous. In 
her dress was she " Prince Perfect," the " principal boy " ; 
in manner was she the gentle little lady I knew off the stage. 
She might have been sitting in discreet morning costume 
in her own drawing-room with her children round her, for 
any consciousness she showed of her scanty attire. I was 
embarrassed ; she was quite at her ease. 

Amongst the actors who come regularly to Dublin, I con- 
fess a special friendship and admiration for Martin Harvey. 
He brings the glamour of old romance on the stage. " Senti- 
mental," I would call his acting, had not the word been 
" soiled by all ignoble use." His appearance, his gestures, 
every inflexion of his sympathetic voice, are replete with 
sentiment, lofty or pathetic. 

He was always a great favourite with the Dublin ladies, 
who, without distinction of age, from sixteen to sixty, posi- 
tively adored him. More than once I have seen him in my 
drawing-room an unwilling Bunthorne amid a swarm of 
love-sick worshippers, terribly embarrassed by the persistent 
and universal idolatry. 

On one occasion, I remember, I introduced him to a row 
of youthful adorers, ranged together on a drawing-room 
sofa. He simply bowed his acknowledgment and turned 
away. I saw tears start into their beautiful eyes, and my 
heart was moved. 

" Harvey," I said reproachfully, " if I had a row of lovely 
adorers, the very least I would do would be to shake hands 
with them." The kindly actor instantly made the girls 
happy by the touch of his hand. 

On another occasion I introduced him to a very young 
and pretty girl by a wrong name. Her name, let us say, 
was Miss X. I introduced her as Miss Y. 

" Oh, how could you ! " she wailed as he turned away. 
" Now he will always think of me as Miss Y." 

I instantly rectified the error. 

" Mind, Harvey," I said when I had introduced him cor- 



STILL ON THE STAGE 305 

rectly, " you are always to think of this young lady as 
Miss X." 

The finest recitation I have ever heard was Harvey's 
rendering of Tennyson's " Edward Grey." I had read the 
lines often, thinking them rather trite and commonplace. 
When Harvey recited them I realized for the first time the 
infinite tenderness and passion of which they were capable. 

Quite recently Mr. Martin Harvey gave me the surprise 
of my life. I had heard great things of his performance in 
" (Edipus Rex," outside Shakespeare assuredly the greatest 
tragedy ever written. It was the only Greek play I had 
ever read in the original, and reading it twenty lines at a 
time with the aid of a dictionary and grammar I was hardly 
in a position to appreciate its beauty. Since then, however, 
I have read it many times in various translations, with ever- 
growing admiration of the tremendous and overwhelming 
power. The Unities, that always seemed to me artificial 
fetters which hampered the genius of the dramatists of 
France, here lend directness and simplicity to the awful 
tragedy which grows like a cloud with little gleams of light 
through the gloom till the whole sky is darkened and the 
storm bursts. 

In all humility I must confess that I did not think that 
Mr. Martin Harvey was the actor for the part. In tender- 
ness, pathos and romantic melddrama I knew him to be 
supreme, but I did not credit him with the dignity and 
power that (Edipus imperatively demanded. 

The moment he appeared on the stage, stately and master- 
ful in the midst of imminent calamity, a demi-god of old 
<jreek legends, by word and gesture dominating the panic- 
stricken crowd, I realized my mistake, and my admiration 
grew to an almost painful intensity during the progress of 
the play. In a long experience I have seen nothing more 
magnificent on the stage. 

I am, as I have said, not musical, and only was once 
brought into close contact with a great musician. I was 
surprised to find the famous violinist, Kubelik, when I first 
met him little more than a boy, though then in the plenitude 
of his power and fame. Some little time before, he told me, 



3o6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

he had received twenty-two thousand dollars for four con- 
certs in New York — over a thousand pounds a concert. 

He had a very charming story to tell of Lord Dudley, who 
was at the time Viceroy in Ireland, and I am inclined to 
think the most popular Viceroy that ever held Court in 
Dublin. 

" I was coming from Marienbad," said Kubelik, " and, 
stupid as I was, I forgot to have a sleeping-carriage for my 
wife — you know, I am only just married. Your Viceroy, 
Lord Dudley, heard of it, and he insisted on giving up his 
own sleeping-car. ' I am an old traveller,' he said to me. 
' I can bear the hardship of the journey better than a young 
bride.' " 

Kubelik told me he was never fatigued by playing ; his 
violins were friends of whose talk he never tired. 

I wonder what fatalists would say of the grim little story 
which I heard from Mr. Harry Nicholls about the actor 
Terriss, who was murdered on his way to the theatre. 

" I was playing," said Nicholls, " in ' Secret Service ' 
with poor Terriss at the Adelphi when he was murdered. 
I saw him an instant after the blow was struck, and I had 
to break the news to his son. The poor young fellow came 
right through London with newsboys in every street yelling 
the details of the murder. But he never noticed anything. 
The first hint he got was from my lips. It was the most 
terrible ordeal of my life. I trust in the time to come I 
shall have nothing to face like that. Poor Terriss was the 
kindest-hearted and most lovable man in the world. He 
had a curious morbid feeling about death. He used to jest 
on this subject with jests that seemed more than half 
earnest. The night before the murder he laid himself out 
stiff in the green-room, saying, ' This is how I shall look.' 
The next night I saw him lying there dead." 

In the old days in Dublin during the Italian opera it was 
the custom for the amateurs in the audience to entertain 
the theatre with comic songs in the intervals between the 
scenes, and very often when the curtain went up the pro- 
fessionals on the stage had to wait until some popular 
amateur among the audience had finished his song. 



STILL ON THE STAGE 307 

A couple of verses of one characteristic specimen of those 
popular ditties still lingers in my memory, when so many 
things better worth remembering have escaped : — 

As I was sitting gay, careless and free, 
On the very top bench of the top gallery, 
I spied a fair lady, all beauteous was she, 
Down in the dress circle a-smiling at me. 

Oh, red was the hue of her opera cloak. 

And redder the blush of her cheek as I spoke. 

Her intellect bright, for she laughed at my wit 

When I shouted, " Remove the white hat from the pit." 

Occasionally I have been the witness of a humorous inter- 
lude, wholly unrehearsed, on the Dublin stage. On one 
occasion I was present, in my youth, at a somewhat primi- 
tive performance of " Macbeth," most realistically produced, 
at one of the minor theatres. The stage manager's notion of 
realism was to suspend a blood-clotted dagger by an in- 
visible thread from the ceiling, in order to give greater 
reality to the horror of Macbeth. But at the last moment 
the dagger could not be found, and a long oyster-knife was 
substituted. 

" Is this a dagger that I see before me ? " began the 
Scottish chieftain, when a shrill voice from the gallery in- 
terrupted, " D n well you know it is an oyster-knife ! " 

And at that unfortunate interruption the tragic muse fled 
from the theatre for the night. 

On another occasion Mr. Rousbey was playing the part 
of Cardinal Pole in " 'Twixt Axe and Crown " with singular 
ability. At the rising of the curtain he was discovered 
seated at a table in a meditative attitude. There was a 
moment's dead silence in the theatre, then from the gallery 
a shrill cock-crow was heard. 

Rousbey leaped from his chair and advanced to the foot- 
lights threateningly. 

"If," he said, " the person who has been guilty of that 
interruption ventures to repeat it I will have him removed 
from the theatre, and will myself appear against him in 
the police-court to-morrow." Then, without a pause, he 
added, in a voice of solemn menace, " Though lightly wears 
Elizabeth her head, I will contrive to bring it to the block." 



3o8 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

The coincidence of the double threat was too much for 
the audience, and a prolonged roar of laughter gave Cardinal 
Pole further time for meditation. 

Barry Sullivan was in his time the chief and special 
favourite of a Dublin audience. No other impressed them 
so thoroughly with the reality of his performance. On one 
occasion he was playing Othello — I forget who was lago, 
but he had a rough time of it — ^when at last, in a frenzy of 
passion, the stalwart Moor seized his tempter by the throat 
and shook him as a terrier does a rat, and an applauding 
shout rang out from the gallery : 

" That's right, Barry ! Strangle the devil, strangle him ! " 

One other illustration how a quick wit saved the situa- 
tion concludes my stage reminiscences. I do not claim to 
have been an eye-witness. I tell the tale as it was told to 
me by a colleague who was present, or said he was. The 
alleged hero was no less a person than Henry Irving, long 
before he became famous. He was playing the villain in a 
sensational melodrama. In the last scene he attempts to 
break out of prison, but just as he had filed the bars and 
was preparing his leap for freedom the report of a gun is 
heard outside, and he falls back lifeless into his cell. 

On the night in question the gun refused to go off. There 
was an anxious moment as the villain stood poised at the 
window waiting vainly to be shot. Then suddenly, without 
apparent cause, he fell backwards on the floor of his cell. 

" Gracious Heaven," he cried aloud as he writhed in his 
death agony, " I've swallowed the file ! " 



CHAPTER XXXIV 
ROME AND AMERICA 

Leo XIII — An awe-inspiring Pope — An old cap for a new — The World's 
Press Parliament — An invitation — An interview in mid-ocean — Rear- 
Admiral Melville — Judgments and prophesies — The St. Louis Ex- 
position. 

A MONG the many remarkable men I have had the good 
JTx. fortune to meet, I was most profoundly impressed 
by Pope Leo XIII. In face and figure he was awe-inspiring 
as a being from another world. He made the great mystery 
of which he is the embodiment easy of belief ; he realized 
the ideal of Christ's vicegerent on earth with supreme 
dominion over the souls of men. 

I had gone to Rome on a pilgrimage, personally conducted 
by the late Prior Glynn, who had been for many years 
resident in the Eternal City and knew its wonders as he 
knew the palm of his hand. The pilgrims were fortunate 
enough to have a special Mass said for them by his Holiness 
in the Sistine Chapel, whose boy choir is the finest in the 
world, and on whose ceiling is displayed the masterpiece of 
Michael Angelo. But neither the choir nor the painting 
could for a moment divert the eye or ear from the wonderful 
old man who was the central figure of the scene. He seemed 
more spirit than human, and carried us with him into that 
other world to which he belonged. His face and hands were 
so thin as to be almost transparent, yet he did not give the 
idea of emaciation. The body was forgotten, while the 
soul shone out in eyes wonderfully large and luminous in 
which his whole life was concentrated. It would hardly 
have surprised us if, when he lifted his thin white hands at 
the Consecration, he had risen into the air and vanished 
from our eyes. 

309 



310 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

An audience followed the Mass, at which the good- 
hearted Prior must have given me a character far beyond 
my deserts, for I knew no word of Italian and was com- 
pletely at his mercy. Certainly the Pope was most gracious. 
His smile, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand on 
my head, filled me with a veneration that I cannot even 
try to describe. Though not more used than most men 
to the melting mood, I cried like a child during the 
audience. 

It is fair to confess that at least one of the pilgrims, an 
American priest, was not so overpowered by the pontifical 
presence. On the eve of the audience the Reverend Yankee 
procured a white biretta, the kind worn by the Pope, and 
carried it with him to the audience. Afterwards he was 
allowed to substitute the new cap for the old which the 
Pope had worn during Mass, an exchange almost as profit- 
able as the change of new lamps for old in the story of 
Aladdin. Half an hour later he was offered by a com- 
patriot four hundred dollars for the Pope's biretta. A 
few silver hairs found in the lining were valued at ten 
dollars each. 

Some years after my visit to Rome I had the following 
invitation to represent Ireland at the World's Press Parlia- 
ment at the St. Louis Exposition : — 

" St. Louis, U.S.A., 

" February i8th, 1904 

" Office of the President. 

" Mr. McD. Bodkin, 

" 52, Upper Mount, Dublin, Ireland. 

" Dear Sir, 

" The Universal Exposition and Executive Com- 
mittee of the World's Press Parliament have united in 
extending a formal and cordial invitation to you to do them 
the honour to participate, with other distinguished leaders 
of the world's journalism, in the World's Press Parlia- 
ment, to be held at the Universal Exposition, 16-21 May, 
1904. 



ROME AND AMERICA 311 

" I trust that I may be favoured with an early reply, and 
that you will be present at this greatest assemblage of the 
world's journalists ever known. 

" I am, dear Sir, with assurance of high consideration, 
" Very truly yours, 

" David R. Francis, 
" President." 

There is little to be told of a voyage across the Atlantic, 
which has gradually come to mean no more than a week's 
stay at a very first-class hotel. It was the unfortunate Oscar 
Wilde, if I remember right, that was " disappointed " with 
the Atlantic. I do not share his disappointment. I cannot 
understand it. As our huge vessel forces her way through 
the thundering waves, crushing them into clouds of white 
foam at the bow, the sunshine striking through sets a score 
of broken rainbow curves shining and dancing in the foam. 
To right and left the waves go by in rushing hills and 
valleys— deep blue in the sunshine, dark slate colour in the 
shadow. Now and again the wind catches a huge breaker, 
twists and shapes it to a pointed cone and drives a spout of 
white foam like smoke into the air. For one moment the 
light, striking through the peak of the cone, changes it to 
a pellucid green, clear and bright as a flawless emerald. 
The effect is indescribably beautiful. 

Most amazing of all is the illusion as you step from one 
of the hall doors on to the deck. The whole wide circle of 
the ocean, right away to the distant horizon, seems to 
slowly swell and sink with the swell of the vessel. 

But I must not dwell on views which everyone who has 
crossed the ocean in a big liner has had the same chance of 
enjoying. I only allude to the journey because I met in 
mid-ocean a very remarkable man with whom I had many 
chats before we touched land on the other side — Rear- 
Admiral Melville. 

He was the man who was responsible for the fleet which 
made such short work of the Spaniards. He was the Chief 
of the American Navy Construction before the war, during 
the war and after it. 



312 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

The Rear-Admiral is not merely a remarkable, but a 
remarkable-looking man — the two things do not always go 
together. A massive man, broad-shouldered and big-limbed, 
with a leonine head and a face strong, handsome, yet benevo- 
lent : a great flowing white beard gives a patriarchal sug- 
gestion to his appearance. 

When I first saw him he was sitting in an easy wicker 
chair in the corridor facing the broad stairs that led to the 
dining-room. I plopped down in another beside him, and 
opened the conversation with a remark about the weather, 
which on sea is even a more fruitful and piquant topic than 
on shore. 

The steward had told me (for I sleep well) that it had blown 
a pretty gale during the night. 

But the Rear-Admiral made nothing of it, 

" You can hardly call it a breeze," he said, " to a big 
vessel like this ; the bigger a ship the better." 

" In peace or in war ? " 

" In peace and in war," retorted the Rear-Admiral 
sturdily. 

" Yet some people seem to think," I ventured to say, 
" that in war, at least, the future is with the small, swift 
vessel — the alert wasp with the torpedo for a sting, whose 
sting is fatal to the biggest ship afloat." 

The big man was roused at this heresy. 

" Sheer nonsense ! " he replied. " The newspaper men 
may say those things and the newspaper readers believe 
them, but that doesn't make them true. You will get more 
fight out of a hundred thousand dollars than out of ten 
thousand, and a hundred times more out of a million. We 
are building big vessels — eighteen-, nineteen-, twenty- 
thousand tonners, and will keep on building them. England 
is doing the same ; she shows her sense in that. The bigger 
the vessel " (he repeated emphatically) " the better." 

" The recent encounters between Russia and Japan hardly 
prove that," I hinted submissively. The war between 
Russia and Japan was in full swing at the time. 

" They prove nothing at all," he answered, " except that 
the Russians were careless or reckless, or both. Their navy 



ROME AND AMERICA 313 

was disabled in the first encounters. The Japs are prompt, 
brave and ingenious, no doubt, but the result was less the 
Japs' credit than the Russians' fault." 

" But the torpedo-boats played a great part in those 
engagements ? " 

" Of course, of course. But a big vessel can deal with 
torpedo-boats if she is properly handled." 

" And the mines ? " 

" Oh, the mines are a danger, no doubt, to little vessels 
and big. The chief danger of a mine lies in the fact that 
the vessel's magazines of explosives are kept as near the 
bottom as possible to avoid the risk of explosion from shot, 
shell or torpedo. But their position renders them all the 
more easily exploded by a mine. But this danger, too, may 
be evaded." 

" Are the submarines really the vessel of the future ? " 
I asked, an interesting question in view of recent discussion. 

The Rear-Admiral grew splendidly indignant and de- 
nounced the submarines vigorously. " They are worthless, 
worse than worthless," he said ; " they can never be of 
any use." 

His opinion was identical with that of Mr. Wells, the 
novelist and scientific prophet. The visionary theorist and 
the practical expert were for once in absolute accord. 

" What can the blind things do, anyway ? " he growled 
thunderously, " as they go blundering about in the dark, 
not seeing beyond their own noses ? I always did my best 
to keep them out of the American Navy. A sneak vessel 
should be quick, alert, keen-sighted, rapid in approach and 
in flight. This is what the torpedo-boat is, and this is 
exactly what the submarine isn't — blundering along in 
the dark at the rate of eight knots an hour at the 
outside." 

" Have they not some contrivance to enable them to see 
through the water ? " 

" Oh, aye " (with fine contempt), " a lot of contrivances. 
We tried them all in our navy, and flung them away. 
England showed us the other day how a submarine should 
be dealt with. It should be rammed. She didn't mean it 



314 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

a bit. It was her own submarine she rammed, but the 
lesson was good, all the same. The submarines have to 
come to the surface, as whales have, to blow. They cannot 
shoot then ; they cannot use their torpedo-tubes ; they can 
do nothing, while the enemy goes straight in and rams them." 

He spoke with the warmth of active hostility. He 
rammed them with emphasis, as if he had used another 
word beginning with a big " D " instead. 

I switched the talk on to another tack. 

" You think the Japanese Navy will win ? " 

" I think they have won. They have the Russian Navy 
on the run. Indeed, I don't know what navy the Russians 
have got to fight with." 

" You don't think that ends the war ? " 

" No, sir " (with great emphasis). " I think the Russians 
will win in the end, and I hope it. They are, at least, as 
good fighters as the Japs, and the numbers must tell. 
Besides, they have better horses and are better horsemen. 
They will come out on top." 

" I thought American sympathy was with the Japs? " 

" Don't believe it. The American papers may sympathize, 
but not the thoughtful Americans. They see what it would 
mean — the East against the West, invasion like the Huns in 
the old days, only more terrible, more permanent. 

" A triumph in Russia," he said, " would secure the Japs' 
dominion in China. What would happen if China, with her 
three or four hundred millions of men, should wake up as 
Japan has wakened up ? I visited Japan about forty years 
ago. They were savages then, sir. Most of them had no 
clothes except a loin-cloth. They hadn't a vessel bigger 
than the boats that are hanging at our davits. Their 
weapons were two-handed swords. I bought a lot of them 
when I visited the place as a young man. You could get a 
good sword then for three or four dollars that would cost 
a hundred now." 

" A profitable investment, I should think ? " 

" Oh, I gave them away to my friends. Swords are not 
as plentiful now — they have other weapons. Japan went 
to the front with a jump. Why cannot China do the same. 



ROME AND AMERICA 315 

with Japan to teach her and help her ? It would be a 
dangerous outlook for the West. Let me say right here, 
I don't want it." 

My hearty concurrence in this view seemed to please him, 
and we interchanged cards. My offer of a cigar he refused. 
The Rear- Admiral had " no use for tobacco." Our talk 
passed to less momentous topics. He told me that drunken- 
ness had almost disappeared from the States, and even 
moderate drinking was on the decline. He remembered the 
time when drunkenness was the fashion down South. But 
even down South there was little of it now. 

I asked did they mean to keep on their President. 

" Yes," he said. " Roosevelt is sure to win at the next 
election, and a good thing too. But if the Democrats con- 
centrate, as I think they will, on Chief Justice Parker — 
right good man, Parker ! — he will have a pretty close run. 
Your people generally go Democrat. I'm sure I don't know 
why, except to help the under dog. That's Irish all the 
time, and we like them for it." 

The Rear-Admiral's panegyric of big ships is now in 
question. Since then they have had a great boom, but 
there has come a reaction, and the despised submarine, and 
not the dreadnought, is now acclaimed the warship of the 
future. 

I don't mean to say much of the St. Louis Exposition, 
the biggest the world has ever seen or is likely to see. It 
was American, it was colossal, and everything connected 
with it was colossal. The " Inside Inn," where I put up, 
was in itself one of the chief wonders of the place. I do not 
know the precise number of rooms in the hotel — I doubt if 
they have been counted. My room was numbered 6402, and 
that, so far as I could judge, was about midway in the 
total. The space of the dining-rooms was to be measured 
not by feet or yards, but by acres ; I had almost said miles. 

Yet this huge structure, by many degrees the biggest 
hotel the world has ever seen, was constructed in a single 
year, and in a year more had wholly vanished. Vast as was 
the accommodation, every day hundreds of visitors, if not 
thousands, were sent away disappointed. The great piazza 



3i6 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

in front was daily thronged with ten thousand representa- 
tives of the nationahties of the world. 

I was delighted to find Ireland so popular in the States. 
An American Pressman guesses my nationality and ques- 
tions me with inoffensive frankness. Thereupon he produces 
his card ; I respond with mine. He then formally intro- 
duces me to his relatives and such friends as are procurable 
at short notice. We all interchange cards. Each in turn 
cordially shakes my hand and utters the formula, " I am 
vurry proud to meet you, sir," and so the ceremony con- 
cludes. I brought about a thousand visiting cards home 
with me from the States. 



CHAPTER XXXV 
THE WORLD'S PRESS PARLIAMENT 

A brilliant reception— Secretary Hay — American oratory — Japan and 
Russia — Princeton students at play — The college yell — " Tiger ! Tiger ! " 
— A remarkable vice-president. 

ALMOST immediately after my arrival at St, Louis I was 
jriL bidden to a grand reception of the foreign repre- 
sentatives of the World's Press Parliament to meet 
the Hon. John Hay, State Secretary for the Republic. 
The great city of palaces was ablaze with millions of 
electric lamps that emulated sunshine. The broad inter- 
vening lagoons were sheets of silver. The cloudless moon 
paled its ineffectual fire in the glare of manufactured 
daylight. 

The ceremonial, to my unaccustomed eyes, was very 
strange. " The receiving line," as it was called, headed by 
Secretary Hay, drew up in a small antechamber and stood 
and waited patiently while two thousand five hundred 
guests filed slowly past. Entering at one door, they were 
introduced in rapid succession, shook hands with the whole 
" receiving line," numbering about a dozen, and disappeared 
into the great halls. 

Tea was served by a swarm of Japanese girls in gorgeous 
costumes, making bright splashes of colour in the crowd. 
With each cup they presented a tiny nosegay of the tea 
plant. A Russian prince, who was one of the vice-presidents 
of the World's Press Parliament, was present at the function. 
I wonder if he enjoyed his tea. 

There and elsewhere at the Fair I was introduced to 
several Japs with unpronounceable and unspellable names. 
They were all the very embodiment of bland courtesy. The 
impressions produced were so admirably described in the 

317 



3i8 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

St. Louis Daily Globe Democrat, which, by the way, is a 
RepubHcan organ, that I am irresistibly tempted to quote 
a few Unes : — 

" There is something very striking and radical about the 
Japanese grin. It is employed with such frequency and 
such diffuseness. Is it propitiatory in its character, tem- 
peramental, or does it arise from genuine amiability ? You 
ask the man in charge of the exhibit a question, and he dis- 
plays a toothsome smile. You speak to a workman finishing 
a booth, and his face broadens like a Jack-o'-lantern. 
Conversation is all carried on with the most open counte- 
nance. Is it as superficial as the American society smile 
which works by draw-strings ? The Japanese employ smiles 
with the same lavishness they employ in their embroidery 
and decorating their pottery. As a means towards an end 
they are extraordinarily valuable, and their cheapness must 
also appeal to the thrifty streak in the Japanese national 
character." 

The World's Press Parliament held its first session in the 
Great Festival Hall, a huge building with a dome like 
St. Peter's, described as " the crowning glory of this miracu- 
lous exposition." The hall was on this occasion for the 
first time thrown open to the public. It was brighter than 
day with thousands of electric lights. The Press repre- 
sentatives of thirty-five different nations were assembled 
on the platform. The body of the hall held four thousand 
interested spectators of the proceedings. In the pit and 
galleries were the editors and literary celebrities of every 
State and great city in the vast Republic. 

At the first meeting of the World's Press Parliament the 
chief speaker was the then Secretary of State, the Hon. 
John Hay. Very different is American oratory, of which 
I then had my first taste, from the British, as exemplified 
in the House of Commons. The Americans go in for 
" eloquence," they are much more flowery and more fluent. 
They run their sentences together in a way that must make 
it difficult, if not impossible, for a shorthand writer to hang 
on to them. Perhaps that is the reason that verbatim re- 
porting is not in vogue in the States. 



THE WORLD'S PRESS PARLIAMENT 319 

Hay's peroration was very powerful. " In the name of 
the President," he said, " writer, soldier and statesman, 
eminent in all three professions and in all equally an advo- 
cate of justice, peace and goodwill, I bid you a cordial 
welcome with the prayer that this meeting of the repre- 
sentatives of the world's intelligence may be fruitful in 
advantage to the Press of all nations and may bring us 
somewhat nearer to the dawn of the day of peace on earth 
and goodwill towards men. Let us remember that we are 
met to celebrate the transfer of one nation to another with- 
out the firing of one shot, without the shedding of one drop 
of blood. If the Press of the world would adopt and persist 
in the high resolve that war should be no more, the clangour 
of arms would cease from the rising of the sun to its going 
down, and we could fancy that at last our ears, no longer 
stunned by the din of armies, might hear the morning 
stars singing together, and all the sons of God shouting 
for joy." 

I had myself the honour to deliver the opening address 
at the last session, on " The World's Press Parliament and 
its Functions," and I have to make grateful acknowledg- 
ment of the kindly way in which the address was received 
by the Press of St. Louis. One extract will suffice from 
the St. Louis Glohe Democrat. It is interesting as a word- 
picture of the Japanese representatives at our Parlia- 
ment : — 

" One of the speakers at the Press Parliament spoke with 
feeling and emphasis against the evil of war in his address, 
and, being an Irishman, it seems scarcely necessary to say 
he spoke with eloquence. There is just a touch of the 
brogue on his tongue, and as he thundered forth ' War-r is 
murd-her,' it was interesting to glance at the faces of the 
Japanese editors present. While they had sat imperturbable 
through most of the address, and it is to be feared not en- 
tirely fathoming the Irish jokes of the speaker which had 
preceded his philippic against war, they were alert instantly 
when a subject so near to their almost constant thought 
was brought into the arena. One of them stroked and 
pinched his cheek in manifest agitation ; another turned 



320 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

much paler and whispered excitedly to his companion ; 
while a third somewhat unexpectedly applauded the 
sentiment loudly." 

The most dramatic event of our last meeting was the 
delivery in succession of two addresses by the representa- 
tives of Japan and Russia. The speakers were eminently 
typical of their respective races. The Japanese, Ino Herado, 
seemed little more than a boy — short, slight, alert, intelli- 
gent, with that strange Eastern face that looks as if all the 
features had been flattened to the surface, and the curious 
turned-up slits of eyes — black, gleaming, opaque, inscru- 
table. He spoke of the difficulty of Press work in Japan, 
where there are as many as forty thousand distinct Chinese 
letters to be set up, and where the compositor, instead of 
tapping his linotype, or even picking his type from a 
case in front of him, has to walk round a big room in 
search of the particular letter he requires ; and he grew 
fervent in his anticipation of the advent of a more rational 
system by the adoption of the Roman alphabet in their 
literature. 

The Japanese, take them one with another, spoke the 
clearest and most idiomatic English of any of the foreign 
representatives, and this speaker was the best of them all. 
His voice, manner, action, gesture were a curious and ad- 
mirable parody of European oratory, and forced one to 
remember that up to this his civilization has been largely 
imitative ; already Japan has almost completely learned 
all that Europe has to teach, and thoroughly assimilated 
that knowledge. 

Japan will not stop there. There is an ingenuity — an 
originality of purpose — ^in the nation that forces it to further 
progress, and the startling question presents itself : " What 
next ? " 

The Russian representative, Lio Nobokoff, was as typical 
as the Japanese of his own land — old, gaunt, rugged, with 
long white hair combed back from his forehead. He com- 
plained of the Press restrictions in Russia, for which he 
declared the Czar was in no way responsible. It was 
the lack of Free Press that hampered Russia in peace 



THE WORLD'S PRESS PARLIAMENT 321 

and in war. He invited the World's Press Parliament 
to hold its next meeting in Moscow, where its presence 
could not fail to hasten the liberation of the Russian 
Press. 

It is noteworthy that the Russian representative 
warmly applauded the Japanese, and the Japanese the 
Russian, in the delivery of their respective addresses. The 
project of a permanent World's Press Parliament was 
applauded by all. We had earnest invitations for our next 
meeting, not merely to Moscow by the Russian, but to The 
Hague by the Dutch, and to Athens by the Greek repre- 
sentatives. 

One curious and characteristic incident may round off 
this brief account of the Exposition. At the close of a great 
banquet to the foreign representatives of the World's Press 
Parliament, Mr. Johns, the editor of the Post Dispatch, 
carried me off near midnight to " finish the evening " with 
" the boys " of the Princeton University, who this year 
held their annual gathering from all parts of the States in 
a great restaurant of the Exhibition under the " Alps," close 
to the Irish section. 

I suggested that it was too late, but he curtly overruled 
the objection with the brief remark : 

" You don't know our boys." 

Sure enough, we found the festivities still in full swing. 
I was introduced and had to make a speech, and in response 
the full college yell was given by the company, closing with, 
"Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" 

A college yell is, indeed, a strange and wonderful institu- 
tion. Its familiar sound, I am told, at sport and festival, 
makes the old man young again in America. 

" Tiger ! Tiger ! " is an integral part of the Princeton 
College yell, and the tiger is the badge of the college. " Will 
you allow me," said one of the " boys " very gravely, after 
I had shaken hands with the president, " to introduce you 
to our vice-president ? " 

He brought me to the foot of the long table where I had 
noticed, with some curiosity, a big box with a grating in 
front. It contained a huge sleek, live tiger. The great 



322 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

monster seemed almost bashful as he rose and stretched his 
elastic limbs lazily. I wonder what he thought of the 
strange scene he had witnessed so quietly through that long 
night ? Perhaps he had previously rather fancied himself 
at yelling, and felt humiliated. 



CHAPTER XXXVI 
RIVAL ATTRACTIONS 

Niagara — A contrast — The glories of the Falls — The woman who went 
over — A farewell vision — An episode — A curious correspondence — A 
remarkable girl — Strangers yet friends. 

I AM quite conscious of the audacity of attempting to 
describe Niagara. The thing has really been done so 
well and so often that trite repetition seems inevitable. But 
no two people see this most tremendous spectacle of physical 
nature through the same pair of eyes. For each there is a 
distinct vision and new delight, and if he can put even 
some poor remnant of his bewildering, overpowering sensa- 
tions into words his description must be, in some degree at 
least, original. 

After a visit to Niagara the imagination feels the strain 
of its immensity, its grandeur, its overpowering force. 
However high-flown the anticipation, the reality surpasses 
it. The sublime picture possesses — I had almost said 
oppresses — the imagination, and one is under physical com- 
pulsion to write or talk about it. 

I was fortunate in my visit, fortunate in the weather and 
in the manner of my approach. Instead of taking, as I 
should have done, the train directly from Chicago to the 
Falls, I got out at Buffalo and had a twenty-mile ride in 
an electric trolly-car to Niagara, 

" Our indiscretions sometimes serve us well when our 
deep schemes do fall." Midway between Buffalo and the 
Falls we passed through the Indian-named hamlet of Tona- 
wanda, the most silent, sleepy, sunshiny spot in the wide 
world. It was the vivid description of Mary Wilkins' 
charming stories suddenly reaHzed to the senses. Keen as 
was my eagerness to feast my eyes on the Falls, this wonder- 
ful village tempted me from the car. The smooth, clean 

323 



324 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

roads and the pathways stretched long and straight through 
the lush-green grass and through the rows of wooden houses, 
prettily framed and brightly painted, with their infinite 
variety of " stoop " verandah, porch and pillar. 

Unfenced orchards were everywhere in the full glory of 
their spring vesture, pink and white, radiant and fragrant. 
The place was all silent and seemingly deserted as the ruins 
of Babylon. There was no sound or motion but the flutter- 
ing and song of the big American robin, a bird with the 
plumage of our redbreast, the note of a blackbird, the shape 
and more than the bulk of a thrush. 

No better preparation was possible than quiet, sleepy 
Tonawanda, calmly embosomed in apple blossoms as a 
contrast to the stormy rush and roar of Niagara. As we 
swept closer in the swift electric trolly-car a low, earth- 
shaking sound, like the deep growl of distant thunder, 
told me that the great wonder of the world was close at 
hand. 

I was in luck, too, in my guide — bright, alert and intelli- 
gent — brimming over with information. Of Irish descent, 
of course, I might have fancied him an Irish jarvey but for 
the faint twang that had mastered the brogue and the quaint 
shape of his American buggy, with an awning stretched taut 
to ward off the rays of the sun that blazed from a cloudless 
sky. 

I set out to describe the Falls. Now that I have come 
quite close to the moment when that tremendous spectacle 
first burst on my sight I realize how impossible is the task. 
Impossible to describe as it is to forget, the first sight of 
Niagara is an epoch in one's existence. From the bridge 
to Goat Island, which cuts the river in two, I had my 
first sight of the Rapids, an ever angry sea, with a heave 
of green wave and a splash of white foam rushing to 
the Falls at the speed of an express train, dazzling and 
bewildering in their impetuous fury. Many great writers 
have left it on record that the Rapids were to them more 
wonderful and more awe-inspiring than the cataracts, and 
a great painter has chosen the Rapids, not the Falls, as 
the theme of his historic picture. For myself, I confess 



RIVAL ATTRACTIONS 325 

that, superb as are the Rapids, I can find Httle meaning in 
such judgment. 

It was an awful moment, to be remembered for a hfetime, 
when I first caught a full view of the stupendous glory of 
the Falls. My driver and guide pointed to a bridle-path 
that ran out zigzag from the road, and on this I walked 
alone to an angle guarded by a stout iron railing. On either 
side the two great cataracts thundered past. A chill spasm 
of horror shot down my spine. I could scarcely breathe as 
I gazed on this spectacle, too vast and awful as it seemed 
to be compassed by human sight or thought. I had read 
many descriptions, I had seen many pictures — who has not ? 
— of Niagara ; but the reality transcended the wildest 
dreams of my imagination. 

It was wholly different from anything I had conceived ; 
with all its colossal bulk and power there is a majestic 
dignity wonderfully impressive in this great rush of water, 
in striking contrast with the petulance of lesser waterfalls. 
The wide, deep river, perpetually fed by five great lakes, 
does not dash nor leap nor tumble from the cliffs. The 
waters roll over the edge with an even and stately motion. 
Viewed in profile, as I first viewed them, one has the vision 
of a colossal cylinder in endless revolution. In the American 
Fall the cylinder is pure white, with a greenish shadow where 
it touches the cliff. On the Canadian side, where the water 
is far deeper, the revolving cone is of a translucent green, 
like the sea in bright sunshine, flecked here and there with 
streaks of foam, but soft and white as carded wool when it 
thunders into the gulf a hundred and fifty feet below. 

The white clouds rise up three hundred feet from that 
foaming gulf in strange and fantastic shapes, touched here 
and there with broken curves of brilliant rainbows. 

Fifty yards from the foot of the Falls the water is calm 
as a fish-pond. Later on in the day I sailed in almost under 
the cataract in " The Maid of the Mist," the little steamboat 
that navigates the gulf. The volume of water, from the 
impact of its tremendous weight and velocity, buries itself 
far below the surface, flowing with a rapid undercurrent, 
and rising nearly a quarter of a mile away, rushes down a 



326 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

narrow channel at a speed of thirty miles an hour. In those 
narrow Rapids the ill-fated Captain Webb was a victim to 
his own daring. 

There are a thousand thrilling stories told about the Falls. 
Here a man leaped from the light suspension bridge, two 
hundred feet high, the biggest single arch in the world, into 
the gulf ; there the famous Blondin crossed from cliff to 
cliff on a wire rope. I was pointed out a rock close to the 
cliff's edge where a sailor named Alvory, wrecked in the 
Rapids, had clung for four-and-twenty hours to a rock while 
the people on shore made vain efforts at rescue with boat and 
raft, and saw him at last whirled like a straw over the edge 
into the abyss. I was told the story of the silly Englishman, 
" the Hermit of Niagara," who lived for six months alone 
on one of the lesser islands in the Rapids, and spent hours 
daily hanging by his hands from the bridge that spanned 
the fiercest current, dangling over the death that waited for 
him in the wild water below, and ultimately caught him. 

Vague traditions of Red Indian days still hover over the 
place. They tell that in those dim, distant times, the 
Indians, to appease the powerful god of Niagara, yearly 
sent the fairest maiden of the tribe over the Falls in a canoe 
to an inevitable death. How strangely this tradition re- 
sembles the maiden and dragon legends of the old Greeks ! 
but here was a monster that no Theseus could destroy. 
Dogs have gone over the Horseshoe Fall and survived. The 
guide-books, however, unanimously declare that no human 
being ever outlived that awful experience. 

But the guide-books are wrong. The feat was attempted 
and achieved by a woman of forty, who came down the 
Rapids cased in a stout oak case, and was picked up in the 
gulf under the railway bridge none the worse for her unique 
and terrible experience. I met the lady herself in a shop 
and bought her photo. Her comment on the exploit was 
laconic. " I'm glad I did it," she said ; " but I don't want 
to do it again." 

A most touching story is told of a young father crossing 
the bridge from Goat Island, where the Rapid runs fiercest 
above the Fall. The father playfully lifted the little girl 



RIVAL ATTRACTIONS 327 

over the railing that fences the rush of boiling water. With 
a sudden spring she broke from his arms into the awful 
current. He cried out, and leaped the protecting rail in 
mad pursuit. In a flash, too swift for eye to follow, they 
were down the Rapids and over the edge, while the young 
wife and mother, widowed and childless in that instant, lay 
fainting on the bridge. 

It is hard to believe it — Niagara once ran dry. Fed, as 
it is, by five great lakes of an average depth of a thousand 
feet, dry weather or wet makes no appreciable difference in 
the vast volume of water that passes over. But once 
Niagara ran dry. By an unprecedented combination of 
contending winds the opening from Lake Erie was com- 
pletely blocked with ice. In a few hours the river emptied 
its unrecruited waters over the Falls, and for a day there 
was no Niagara. I met an old man, one of many who, on 
that memorable day — 19 March, 1848 — crossed the line of 
the Falls dry-foot. The American Falls, he told me, were 
absolutely dry. On the Canadian side there was, here and 
there, a slight trickle which silently vanished in white foam 
as it fell. Next day the ice-barrier burst, and the rush and 
thunder of the Falls was renewed. 

It is a thrilling experience to pass right under the Falls ; 
from the " Cave of the Winds " I had a glance through 
the mist of the great arch of gleaming green water that 
sweeps by overhead. Niagara as I last saw it is still 
vivid in my memory. I stood midway between the two 
Falls. The sun shone brightly on the dazzling foam. Faint, 
and wavering at first, a great rainbow arch slowly formed 
itself, one foot in Canadian waters, one in American. It 
rose majestically above the tumult, a clear, high arch of 
variegated light, framing the most tremendous spectacle in 
the great picture gallery of Nature. When I had looked 
my fill I closed my eyes, as I was being driven to the train, 
that this might be my last remembrance of Niagara. 

I had two main objects in my visit to America ; one was 
to see Niagara, the other requires a slight digression to 
explain. 

It happened that, twenty years before, a little niece of 



328 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

my wife obtained a bronze medal and the glory of print 
for a paragraph story about a dead bird, which appeared 
in the Children's Page of " Little Folks." A fortnight later 
she got the following letter from Vermont : — 

" My dear Madge, 

" I saw your name in ' Little Folks,' and I thought 
it might do no harm to write to you, as it may be amusing 
to both of us if you will correspond with me. I am ... a 
little American girl, fourteen years old. I have two sisters. 
One is Anne, she is sixteen years old ; Amy is nine years 
old ; they are just as nice as they can be. Anne is going 
to Florida this winter, and I don't know what I shall do 
without her. I have no brothers, and I am glad, for I don't 
like boys a bit — I think they are bothersome things. 

" Have you very deep snow in Ireland ? We have had 
snow over a foot deep this winter. But it has thawed so 
that it is not so deep now. Sometimes it is three or four 
feet deep here. Do you take sleigh rides in Ireland ? We 
have such fun sleigh-riding in winter. Do you go to school ? 
Amy goes to school, but Anne and I have a governess. We 
have a little black-and-tan dog named Billy. Amy har- 
nesses him to a small cart, and he draws it. We have three 
canaries. We call them the Captain, the Duchess and 
Prince Giglio. We have also a large tortoise-shell cat. 
When the river was low he used to go down on the stones 
and catch fish. He used to bring them to the house alive 
in his mouth, and we put them into the fountain with the 
goldfish. They are alive yet. 

" In summer we have a saddle-horse, and have splendid 
times riding on horseback. Do you sing ? I took several 
lessons and enjoy them very much. I have been taking 
them since last June. Anne can play nicely on the piano. 
Do you take music lessons ? Have you ever seen Queen 
Victoria or the Prince of Wales ? I threw a bouquet to 
President Hayes once. There is a village near here where 
Garfield used to teach. We have driven through the village 
several times, but we cannot decide at which school it was. 
Please write soon. . . ." 



RIVAL ATTRACTIONS 329 

No answer was sent ; it was thought to be a hoax, and 
the incident shpped from the child's memory. By mere 
chance I heard of it. I was charmed at the letter and un- 
affected frankness of the child, and answered at length, 
begging that I might be accepted as a correspondent in 
default of a better. In a fortnight's time I had a long 
and dehghtful reply, I will only quote the last few 
lines : — i 

" Last year Anne and I pubHshed a little magazine ; I 
will send you some copies of it. We published it for a year 
and then gave it up, as it was hard work and did not pay 

very well. I hope I shall hear from before long. I 

must end my letter now. Please write again soon. 

" Yours truly, . 

" P.S. — I haven't a shorter name than Irene ; if I had, 
you might call me by it." 

Naturally, I fancied the magazine was a few pages of MS. 
got together for her family and friends. Great was my 
surprise when, a few days later, I received twelve numbers 
of " Our Magazine," neatly printed on good paper and well 
brought out, with the name of the editress, my little friend, 
then thirteen years of age, on the cover. It was a charming 
child's magazine, with stories long and short, and sketches 
and scraps, comic and sentimental. But the crowning sur- 
prise were the poemiS of my thirteen-year-old friend. Let 
me give a single example from a score. I much doubt if 
it is the best : — 

The tall trees said to the murmuring wind, 
- " Shake down our leaves of gold, 
Down on the grass and the flowers below, 
They shiver in the cold. 

We trees are covered with thick rough bark. 
We are tall and strong and old. 

" The poor little flowers are tender and young. 

Last year they came from seed. 

When cold Winter comes with its ice and snow 

Warm blankets they will need. 

Oh, dear wind, shake down our yellow leaves. 

Cover the poorest weed." 



330 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

So gentle the wind on the branches brown 

Did softly, softly blow, 

And the little leaves all yellow and red 

Did rustling downwards go, 

To cover warm from the frost and cold 

The flowers that slept below. 

The correspondence thus begun continued, while my child 
friend, whom I had never seen, grew to a woman. A score, 
at least, of long and confidential letters passed between 
us every year, till we grew to be familiar friends. 

We called each other by our Christian names, we chatted 
of our families and friends, our pursuits and amusements. 
We knew each other more intimately than neighbours that 
meet every other day. 

So it happened, as I more than once told her in my letters, 
my two chief objects in visiting America were to meet Irene 
and to see Niagara. When I wrote to her of my arrival, the 
three sisters came up specially to meet me in New York, 
and we dined together at one of the chief hotels. 

At our first meeting Irene gave me her hand. " That's 
too cold," I said, " for such old friends as you and I," and 
I kissed her. She was all, and even more than all, her 
letters had promised, and our correspondence is more 
cordial than ever since we met. 



CHAPTER XXXVII 
A DELIGHTFUL VISIT 

Burke-Cockran at home — A " frame house " on Long Island — Sherman's 
grandchildren — "The sea was boiling hot" — American women — Their 
special charm — Why works of art are taxed — Mrs. Jack Gardiner of 
Boston — Evasion of tariff — Statues of lead. 

ON my return from the Exposition to the Manhattan 
Hotel, in New York, I found a letter awaiting me 
from Mr, Burke-Cockran, with an invitation to spend a few 
days with him at his residence in Long Island. 

During my entire trip, in every town I visited I had 
heard the praises of Mr. Burke-Cockran sung, especially by 
enthusiastic Democrats, as the most eloquent man in 
America. There was no man in the States, not excepting 
the President himself, whom I was more anxious to meet, 
and it may be imagined with what pleasure I accepted the 
kindly invitation, for which I was indebted to a letter of 
introduction from Mr. John Dillon, whom Mr. Burke- 
Cockran counts, as he subsequently told me, as one of his 
closest and most valued friends. 

Next morning the telephone bell in my bedroom in 
Manhattan rang me out of bed, and in a moment I was 
conversing with Mr. Burke-Cockran in his home in Long 
Island, some fifteen or twenty miles away. From him I had 
minute instructions when to start and where to go and what 
train to catch. I am a child in those matters, always missing 
my way, but the instructions were so clear and specific that 
I found myself without trouble at the railway station, where 
my host was himself waiting with a high dogcart to drive 
me to his home by the sea. 

Mr. Burke-Cockran is a remarkable man, even to the 
uninformed eyes of a stranger. His appearance carries dis- 
tinction apart from his reputation. In that massive head 

331 



332 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and face there is vast intelligence and power, and in his 
manner there is a geniality that tells of the Irish descent 
of which he is so proud. 

He was in especially good humour that day he met me 
at the train, and told me the cause with almost boyish 
eagerness. It seems that he had just won first prize for 
his favourite horse at the local show and had the silver cup 
with him in the trap. When we got to the house, his first 
care was to arrange to have a glass case constructed for the 
silver cup over the stall of the horse that won it. It was a 
curious idea and very typical of the man. 

Mr. Burke- Cockran's mansion stands in a wide and well- 
wooded demesne, with its back to the sea. It is what is known 
in America as a " frame house," with wooden walls on a stone 
foundation. An excellent whip and rider, he keeps, or used to 
keep, a score or so of horses in the extensive stables situated 
about a quarter of a mile from the house. On the verge of his 
grounds there is a Catholic church, at which he is a constant 
and devout attendant. At the time I paid my visit to Mr. 
Burke-Cockran his other guests were the celebrated Mrs. Jack 
Gardiner, of Boston, and a daughter of the famous General 
Sherman, with her three children — a boy and two girls. 

A very delightful house-party it was, full of consideration 
and information for the stranger. Somehow it seemed to 
bring me in touch with the stirring history of America to 
hear that the little boy with whom I played on the grounds 
(a bright and sturdy little fellow) had only a short while 
ago unveiled at Washington a colossal statue of his grand- 
father, who played so brilliant a part in the Civil War. 
I had an opportunity, too, while staying with Mr. Burke- 
Cockran of verifying my views about the women of America. 
Long Island is, as everyone knows, a very fashionable 
suburb of New York and dotted all over with mansions of 
millionaires. Each evening he drove me out to a big dinner- 
party, and everywhere a hospitable welcome awaited 
himself and his guest. It was regarded to be something of 
a distinction to be a guest of Mr. Burke-Cockran, and on 
that account I was received with special cordiality. 

As I have said, from the beginning of my trip I was im- 



A DELIGHTFUL VISIT 333 

pressed by the ease and grace and thorough naturalness that 
distinguishes the American women. I never felt this more 
strongly than at those stately dinner-tables to which I was 
welcomed as the guest of the great Irish- American. Each 
evening I went down to dinner with some charming American 
lady to whom I had been introduced only a moment before, 
and a moment later we were talking like old friends, with a 
freedom and absence of constraint that could not be achieved 
by less than a month's acquaintance in any other country 
in the world. 

I never saw those ladies before and, I fear, am not likely 
to ever see them again — even their names have passed from 
my memory — but I have to thank them for an experience 
which will be a pleasant memory while I live. It has been 
well said that America is the heaven of women : nowhere 
else in the world have they so good a time, nowhere are 
they so cherished, cared for, petted and not spoiled. But 
they, in their turn, help to make it a heaven for the men. 
The American girls are, for the most part, beautiful, but 
their beauty only serves to heighten the ease of manner 
and quick intelligence which makes them among the most 
charming women in the world. 

I look back with undiminished delight to my experience 
of an American home. During my stay with Mr. Burke- 
Cockran, the youngsters, with whom their host was always 
ready for a romp, eased my loneliness for my own youngsters, 
abandoned at the other side of the Atlantic. They were 
fair specimens of the American child, and the American 
child is peculiarly charming. 

I remember well one very pleasant day spent in their 
company when the thermometer was over a hundred degrees 
in the shade and the sun's rays burned where they touched. 
We four made our way together down through the woods 
at the back of the house to the sea. I wonder is it right to 
mention here that the woods and shrubberies of Long Island 
are infested by a kind of vegetable reptile whose bite is 
poisonous ? It is known as poison ivy ; it does not sting 
like the nettle when touched, but it subsequently raises 
blisters which are very hard to heal. 



334 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

The boy had been bitten on the bare legs by the poison 
ivy, and though the bite was more than a fortnight old the 
blisters were still there. I was about to catch the vegetable 
serpent in my hand when he warned me. He broke into 
the shrubbery right and left, beating down the enemy 
mercilessly with a stick ; but the girls and myself kept 
cautiously along the path in Indian file, turning neither to 
the right nor to the left until we reached the sea. 

Mr. Burke-Cockran keeps a handsome boathouse on the 
shore provided with all bathing appliances. In a few 
minutes we were ready for the water. But as I was going 
to step down the spring-board from the shelter of the cabin 
the skipper warned me back. He took up a full bucket of 
water from the sea and splashed it upon the spring-board, 
which steamed like hot iron at the contact. 

" If you had walked there, sir, before I cooled it," he 
said, " you would not have had a half -inch of whole skin 
on the soles of your feet." 

The recollection of that swim makes me understand what 
sea bathing is to the people of America when the sun is doing 
its best. The water was almost as warm as the air — not 
quite, just a pleasant coolness. The youngsters swam like 
ducks, just as they walked or ran, with no thought of 
fatigue. It was a good hour or more before we coaxed our- 
selves from the cool element back to the almost unendurable 
heat on land. 

Protection sometimes operates curiously in America. 
Mrs. Jack Gardiner is an old lady who preserves all the 
brilliancy and vivacity of youth — a friend of Browning 
during his life ; a friend of the great painter Sargent. A 
discriminating and munificent lover and patron of Literature 
and Art, she has built a palace at Boston and filled it with 
art treasures that almost rival, so I am told, the great 
Wallace Collection in London. Rumour has it that she 
purposes leaving this priceless palace to her native town. 
But meanwhile the indiscriminating laws of her native land 
have mulcted her of something like a quarter of a million 
dollars duty on the importation of those art treasures. It 
certainly seems a strange anomaly. Other countries regard 



A DELIGHTFUL VISIT 335 

great works of art, even in private ownership, as a national 
possession, and sometimes, as in Italy, absolutely forbid 
their exportation. America, that should be so keen to 
acquire through its citizens possession of Old World art 
treasures, has the folly to put a penalty rather than a bonus 
on their importation. 

Mr, Bryce, who was editor and proprietor of the North 
American when it was one of the most famous reviews in 
the world, contributed to by Mr. Blaine and Mr. Gladstone, 
gave me at his own dinner-table what may be taken as an 
explanation, at least, if not a justification, of this strange 
anomaly. 

It seems that at first works of art were duty free. But 
it chanced that at one period that there was a great and 
sudden demand in the United States for lead, which was the 
subject of a particularly heavy tariff. A Yankee genius 
conceived the happy thought of running foreign lead into 
moulds of " Venus," " Juno " and " Jupiter," and ship- 
ping it wholesale to the United States as " works of art." 
It was after that the tariff on works of art was established, 
of which Mrs. Gardiner has been the chief victim. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 
ROOSEVELT AT HOME 

Washington — A pleasant city — No slums — No factories — The Capitol — 
Legislature buildings — The White House — An accessible sovereign — 
Roosevelt's views on Ireland — Irish blood in his veins — His qualifica- 
tion for the position — " Lecky first made me a Home Ruler." 

I ENDED my visit to America in Washington, keeping the 
best for the last. It is emphatically the most beautiful 
city I saw in the States. There are many who pronounce it 
the most beautiful in the world. It is a city of stately 
public buildings, of innumerable monuments and statues, 
of broad, smooth ways, of verdure and of sunshine. I 
never saw a city so full of trees. They are ever3rwhere, 
lining every road or scattered in clusters through the 
innumerable parks and pleasure-grounds. Washington is 
a capital without being a chief town. There are scores of 
cities in the States that exceed its modest population of 
three hundred thousand. New York has at least twelve 
times its population. There are no factories in Washington, 
and consequently there is pure air. There are no slums. 
It is a political and social centre merely, and admirably 
fulfils its functions. I am not going to attempt a guide- 
book description of the American capital, but I may briefly 
note a few of its wonders. The Marble Library is one of the 
most spacious and richly decorated buildings in the world. 
There are very nearly a hundred miles of bookshelves in 
the library, with full space for four million five hundred 
thousand books. At present there are something over one 
million volumes catalogued and arranged. Yet so perfect 
are the arrangements of endless cables and book carriers 
that any book can be whisked in a few seconds from the 
remotest shelf in the vast building into the hands of the 
expectant reader. Amongst the boasts of the library is a 

336 



ROOSEVELT AT HOME 337 

spacious reading-room for the blind, with a huge collection 
of books printed with raised type. 

The Capitol calls for praise that I have no space to 
bestow. It is the greatest building in the New World. It 
represents the most successful effort of the men of modern 
times to match the spacious days of the Old World. The 
painting and sculpture with which its great halls and vast 
domes are decorated are the finest and the best of which 
America can boast. Within its ample confines there is 
abundant space for the Supreme Court, the Senate Hall 
and the Hall of Representatives. This latter building 
excited my special interest. It is, so far as I could judge, 
considerably larger than the House of Commons, though 
the number to be accommodated is less than half. But 
then the Hall of Representatives affords a comfortable seat 
and desk for each Member. The seat is selected by lot at 
the opening of the session and is retained till the close of 
two years' term. The galleries for visitors run right round 
the Chamber, which is circular in form. The reporters are, 
as in the House of Commons, at the back of the Speaker's 
chair. There is no gallery specially reserved for ladies, but 
to the public gallery, to which they are admitted, there is 
no grating. 

The size of the American Chamber of Representatives is 
not, however, an unmitigated advantage. Mr. Burke- 
Cockran assures me it is about the worst hall in America 
for speaking and hearing. The strongest and clearest voice 
is there dissipated in echoes. If the hall is hard to fill, he 
adds, the audience is hard to hold. No position, no reputa- 
tion, suffices. Unless the orator has something to say and 
knows how to say it, in five minutes the buzz of conversation 
breaks in upon his speech. The Congressmen have not yet 
acquired the House of Commons' trick of deserting the 
House in a body when a bore gets on his legs. 

From other sources I learn that none of the difficulties he 
describes are ever personally experienced by Mr. Burke- 
Cockran. There is no Member of the Congress who can hold 
the House better. Prominent men of both parties assured 
me at St. Louis, Chicago, Boston and New York that he 



338 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

is, beyond all doubt or question, the greatest orator in 
America, and many added that if he were a native-born 
American he would probably be the Democrat nomination 
for the Presidency. 

I am afraid I have wandered from Washington. Let me 
come back to the White House and the President. I was, 
at first sight, not a little amazed at the simplicity of the 
residence of the President. A plain white building two 
stories high, exclusive of attic and basement, it is no bigger 
than an ordinary country seat of an Irish landlord. Its 
severe simplicity is relieved only by a portico with tall Ionic 
pillars. Yet this modest residence is the sole palace of the 
most powerful ruler in the world. The building greeted me 
from the first with a vague suggestion of familiarity. After- 
wards I learned from the guide-book that the architect, 
" John Hoban, drew his plans closely from those of the seat 
of the Dukes of Leinster, near Dublin." The whole building 
is pure white, but it is the white of paint, not of marble. 
The house is built of Virginian freestone. " In 1814," we 
read, " in John Quincy Adams' term of office, the house 
was fired by the marauding British troops, and only the 
walls left standing. At the restoration the stone was 
painted white to obliterate the traces of fire." It is as the 
" White House " that the home of one of the world's 
greatest sovereigns, and the seat of his government, is 
known through the length and breadth of the globe. 

At one end of the White House is a small one-storey 
building to which I was directed as " the President's 
office." A plump, bald-headed negro took my card to the 
President's secretary, Mr. Barnes, to whom I presented 
my letter of introduction from Mr. Justin McCarthy to the 
President. Then, in five minutes, it was arranged that I 
should have an interview with the President at half-past 
eleven next morning. I walked out into the green and 
sunshiny park, bewildered with the simplicity and prompti- 
tude of the performance. No fuss, no ceremony, no barriers, 
no lords-in-waiting ; just send in a card and arrange an 
interview, as a matter of course, with the ruler of one of 
the greatest empires in the world. 



ROOSEVELT AT HOME 339 

Needless to say, I was punctual next morning ; but I was 
not three minutes waiting when the President, plainly 
dressed in light grey tweed, stepped briskly into the 
plainly furnished room and accorded me a most cordial 
greeting. 

President Roosevelt looked very young for his age ; face 
and figure were wonderfully alive and alert ; there was not 
a touch of grey in his thick brown hair ; his eyes and smile 
had the vivacity of youth ; one would have guessed his age 
at thirty-five — forty at the outside. 

After a hearty greeting he plunged at once into familiar 
talk about Ireland and her prospects. How was the new 
Land Act working ? What would be the position of parties 
and what the position of Ireland after the next election ? 
I told him that we believed in Ireland that the Coercion 
policy was completely exploded and that the Unionists were 
hopelessly divided, and that it was probable that the Irish 
party would hold the balance of power at the next election 
and could again press Home Rule to the front. 

" I do not understand why pressure is needed," said the 
President. " The English should grant it for their own 
sake if not for yours. It is for her sake as well as yours that 
we in America desire it. We have many happy examples 
before our eyes in our own federal government. I have been 
reading lately," he added, " Morley's ' Life of Gladstone,' a 
wonderful and fascinating book. Gladstone's arguments 
in favour of Home Rule are, to my mind, convincing, but, 
apart from argument, his personal authority should count 
for much with the English people." 

I mentioned that Dr. Emmet, with whom I had dined in 
New York, had allowed me to use his name as an intro- 
duction. 

" You could use none of more influence with me," said 
the President. " Why," he added, smiling, " it was 
Dr. Emmet who, as our family physician, brought me into 
the world. I have a sincere regard for Dr. Emmet and his 
family. The Emmets have grown to be a great New York 
family. The name is as highly respected in New York as 
in Ireland. At the same time, let me say you needed no 



340 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

other introduction to me than Justin McCarthy. There is 
no Irishman better known or better hked as a man and a 
writer on this side of the Atlantic." 

I rose to take my leave, but the President told me to be 
seated. 

" I am ashamed," I said, " to trespass on such valuable 
time. I have always thought you must be the busiest man 
in the world, except the Pope." 

" I rather think I am," he said laughingly, " except the 
Pope. I think you were right in excepting the Pope ; but 
I would not except any other man on earth, not even the 
Kaiser. All the same," he added kindly, " I can spare a 
few minutes for a visitor from Ireland. I am deeply inter- 
ested," he went on, " in the Gaelic revival. Lady Gregorys 
translations of the old Irish legends have afforded m e 
extreme pleasure. I have also read with the greatest 
interest the works of Emily Lawless. There is one of her 
poems — I forget the name, but you will find it near the end 
of the volume — ^which might have been written by Pamell 
or Davitt, if to their other great gifts the poetical faculty 
had been added. By the way, I trust Mr. Davitt is well. 
I have a warm personal regard for Mr. Davitt, and indeed 
for all the Irish leaders. You must know I have Irish blood 
in my veins." 

" We are very proud," I said, " of that fact in Ireland." 

" Oh, I belong to many nationalities," said the President. 
" I have that one qualification to be President of the United 
States, which is a country of many nationalities. I am 
partly Irish, partly Dutch, partly English." 

" Less English than Irish, I trust, Mr. President," I 
ventured to interpolate. 

The President grew suddenly grave. " Every nation on 
earth," he said solemnly, " shall have fair play from the 
Government of the United States and its President. At the 
same time, I can thoroughly understand the feeling of Irish- 
men. No one can read history and fail to appreciate it. 
It was the history of Mr. Lecky that first made me a Home 
Ruler. I cannot understand how the author of that descrip- 
tion of the Union could be himself a Unionist. I cannot 



ROOSEVELT AT HOME 341 

understand how any man could read that history, far less 
write it, without becoming a Home Ruler. It seems to me 
that expediency, as well as justice, are so strongly in favour 
of the reform that Home Rule cannot be long denied to 
Ireland." 



CHAPTER XXXIX 
APPOINTED A JUDGE 

Lord O'Brien of Kilfenora, Chief Justice of Ireland — " Mrs. Maloney to 
you, Pether" — Jury packing, challenging the array — The MacDermot's 
white waistcoat— The situation saved by a pin — Contempt of court — 
A threat and a retort — Appointed as County Court Judge — Appoint- 
ment challenged — An absurd affidavit — A fiasco. 

AVERY interesting personage at the Bar and on the 
Bench was the ex-Chief Justice of Ireland, Lord O'Brien 
of Kilfenora. Like Sir Edward Carson, he took an active 
part in prosecutions under the coercion regime of Mr. 
Balfour, and thereby earned a temporary unpopularity in 
Ireland. But that unpopularity had completely evaporated 
long before the retirement of the Lord Chief Justice. It 
was impossible to maintain a permanent quarrel with a man 
of such genial good-humour. It was eminently characteristic 
of the man that he loved to tell the following story of his 
own brief unpopularity. 

He was engaged for the defence in an action brought by 
a Mrs. Bridget Maloney, and it became his duty to cross- 
examine the plaintiff. 

" Come now, Bridget," he began, " kindly answer me a 
few questions." 

The plaintiff stiffened in the box and turned on him a 
look of withering scorn. " Bridget, indade ! " she exclaimed. 
" Mrs. Maloney, if you plase, to you, Pether." 

While writing for the Freeman I continued to practise 
at the Bar, and was engaged in quite a number of important 
cases. It so chanced that during my practice from first to 
last I was brought into frequent collision with Lord Chief 
Justice O'Brien, both as counsel and judge. 

The first time we met in court, many years ago, was when 
I defended a number of tenants of the Marquis of Clan- 

342 




Photo by Chancellor and Son, Dublin. 



Lord O'Brien of Kilfenora 

Lately retired Lord Chief Justice of Ireland 



APPOINTED A JUDGE 343 

ricarde, whom the Chief Justice (then Serjeant O'Brien) 
prosecuted before Chief Baron Pallas and a special jury at 
the Winter Assizes in Sligo. On behalf of the prisoners I 
" challenged the array," and the jury panel was quashed 
by the Chief Baron on the ground of gross irregularities. It 
was on that occasion Lord O'Brien obtained the soubriquet 
by which he is more generally known in Ireland than by his 
title of nobility. 

We had a second encounter at the same assizes, at the 
close of the case for the prosecution of Mr. Jasper Tully 
under the Whiteboys Act for publishing in his newspaper 
reports of the meetings of the United Irish League. At the 
close of the prosecution, having asked Serjeant O'Brien if 
he had anything more to add, and receiving a curt negative 
in reply, I demanded a direction of acquittal on the ground 
that no case had been made against my client. 

Serjeant O'Brien was at first indignant and contemptuous, 
but when the Chief Baron intimated that as the case stood 
I was entitled to a direction, he applied for an adjournment 
to mend his hand. 

Against this I strongly protested, and declared somewhat 
flippantly, as I now consider, that it was no part of my 
duty to direct proofs for the prosecution. The adjourn- 
ment was, however, granted, but the jury disagreed and 
the prisoner was discharged. 

But it was not in the courts alone that the Lord Chief 
Justice and myself came in conflict. For one reason or 
another he was the subject of an occasional comment in 
the Freeman's Journal. Perhaps the most amusing in- 
cident in his career was his judicial objection to the 
white waistcoat of that eminent Queen's Counsel, The 
MacDermot. 

By common repute The MacDermot, " Prince of Coo- 
lavin," by letters patent, " The wily Mac " in the 
affectionate familiarity of his colleagues on circuit, was the 
ablest and most astute lawyer at the Irish Bar. I have 
introduced him as Mr. Yorke into a novel of mine, " A 
Modern Miracle," as a counsel who contrived to convey to 
a jury that the worst case in which he appeared was a good 



344 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

one spoiled by the advocate, and so secured their sympathy 
and verdict for his chent. He was Sohcitor-General and 
Attorney-General in Gladstone's last government, and it 
was by mere bad luck that he never reached the Bench, for 
which he was eminently qualified. 

The MacDermot was many years senior at the Bar to 
the Lord Chief Justice, and before his prpmotion had con- 
stantly led him in court. But in a little incident that 
occurred in the Court of King's Bench, Lord O'Brien's fine 
sense of decorum overruled those considerations. Next 
day in the Freeman's Journal appeared a leading article on 
" MacDermot's White Waistcoat." 

" There are many things eminent counsel may do on his 
way from the Bar to the Bench that to the ordinary lay 
mind seem somewhat questionable. He may turn his coat 
with impunity and even with advantage. But he must 
never wear a white waistcoat when appearing before a Lord 
Chief Justice. This vital point of legal practice was yester- 
day decided by Lord Chief Justice O'Brien, ex parte The 
MacDermot, q.c. We give the details of the important 
case for the benefit of the public and the profession. The 
MacDermot appeared in court as the leading counsel for 
the defendant in the case of Menton v. Corporation of 
Dublin, apparelled in the silk gown and starched band and 
the funny curly-pated horsehair wig that custom ordains 
for such occasions. So much is to be conceded in the 
extenuation of his grave offence. For on his manly bosom 
he wore ' the white waistcoat of a blameless life.' The 
obnoxious garment caught the keen eye of the Lord Chief 
Justice, whose sense of professional decorum is painfully 
acute. 

" ' I observe,' he said, ' that one of the Queen's Counsel 
appears in a white waistcoat which is not a professional 
costume.' Mark and admire the dignity of this, ' one of 
the Queen's Counsel.' The Lord Chief Justice of Ireland 
cannot condescend to discriminate between the Queen's 
Counsel who have the honour to appear before him. Or 
was it that his eye was so offended by the first glance at 
the obnoxious garaient that he could not look again in the 



APPOINTED A JUDGE 345 

same direction ? He identified the waistcoat, but not the 
wearer. There is a member of the Bar in whose keeping 
the honour of the Bar is safe, who is recognized among his 
brethren as the highest type of manly independence. He 
splendidly vindicated his reputation. ' My lord,' he said, 
' a judge in England stated last week that he would not 
hear any counsel that did not appear in Bar costume.' He 
did not state the name of the case nor of the judge. He 
felt he had done enough for honour by this public repudia- 
tion of an offending brother and this public exhibition of 
profound deference to the court. 

" The Chief Justice of Ireland was not to be outdone by 
any anonymous English judge. 

" ' And I,' he said, ' won't hear any barrister who comes 
into court wearing anything unprofessional.' Here was a 
terrible situation. For a moment there was awestruck 
silence in the court. Would the Lord Chief Justice order 
The MacDermot's white waistcoat to be removed by the 
usher of the court and burned by the common hangman ? 
Those that knew the man, who knew the high ideals that 
governed his professional career, felt him capable of that 
splendid exercise of his authority. But Mr. O'Shaughnessy 
saved the situation with a pin. The MacDermot pinned 
his silk gown over the offending garment and the case 
proceeded. 

" There are many who will gravely doubt whether the 
Lord Chief Justice was justified in this toleration. It was 
paltering with the evil thing. He had, so to speak, judicial 
knowledge that the white waistcoat was there. It is a nice 
question if the dignity of the court was sufficiently main- 
tained by a pin. The case suggests appalling possibilities. 
The Lord Chief Justice did not restrict his veto to white 
waistcoats. He would refuse, he said, to hear any counsel 
who came into court wearing anything unprofessional. He 
was plainly alluding to some other garment. Suppose an 
eminent Queen's Counsel came into court wearing an un- 
professional pair of trousers ? In this case decorum could 
not be adequately secured by a pin. Would the eminent 
Queen's Counsel have to be wholly removed, or would it 



346 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

suffice \o remove — but the subject is too painful to pursue 
further.'* 

Rightly or wrongly, I got the credit of writing the article, 
which I cannot flatter myself was calculated to improve my 
relations with the Lord Chief Justice. 

Our second last encounter was more dramatic. An 
application was made against the editor of the Freeman's 
Journal in a motion to attach and imprison him for con- 
tempt of court by reason of a comment which had appeared 
in his paper on the conduct of a trial at which Lord Chief 
Justice O'Brien presided. 

The Lord Chief Justice also presided at the hearing of the 
contempt of court application, and as leading counsel for 
the Freeman's Journal editor I respectfully suggested that 
his lordship should not hear the case in which his own 
conduct was impugned. By way of reply he threatened to 
have me removed from the court by the police. I challenged 
his authority, and he thought better of the threat, and 
thenceforward, though he persisted in presiding at the 
trial, his manner to me personally was most courteous. 
When I wandered a little from the subject into the general 
question of jury-packing, his lordship asked me very 
politely if I considered that was quite relevant to the 
issue. 

" Perhaps not strictly relevant," I replied, " to the main 
issue of guilty or not guilty. But should by any chance the 
court decide there has been a technical contempt of court, 
your lordship must, I think, also decide that my clients 
have rendered a great public service by denouncing the 
system of jury-packing prevalent in this country, and that 
consideration will surely determine the punishment." 

Ultimately it was decided there was a technical contempt 
of court, but no punishment was inflicted. 

At the conclusion of a long judgment by the Lord Chief 
Justice I humbly asked leave to say a word or two of 
personal explanation. I knew that I could only speak by 
his permission, and I knew that he would promptly shut me 
up if he knew what I was going to say, so I spoke with 
bated breath and whispering humbleness, leading everyone 



APPOINTED A JUDGE 347 

in the court, his lordship among the rest, into the behef that 
I intended to apologize. 

To understand what followed it is necessary to recall the 
fact that very many years ago the late Judge Keogh had, 
at the Cork Assizes, threatened Lord O'Brien, then a junior 
barrister, that he would have him- removed by the police if 
he persisted in interrupting. Almost immediately after- 
wards, however, Judge Keogh returned to court and made 
an ample apology to Mr. O'Brien for having " used so 
unworthy a threat." 

" My iords," I began submissively, " may I be allowed 
by the favour of the court to make a personal explanation 
in reference to some observations that have fallen from the 
Lord Chief Justice ? In anything I said in the progress of 
this case I was actuated by a desire to discharge my duty 
to my clients, and I have, I believe, acted within my privilege 
as counsel. The Lord Chief Justice threatened to have me 
forcibly removed from court. The only precedent that 
occurs to my recollection — I think it will also be with-in the 
recollection of the Lord Chief Justice — is an occasion when 
a member of the outer Bar, now a great judicial luminary, 
was made, as I have been here, the object of a threat of per- 
sonal violence. But in that case, my lords, the judge that 
used the threat had the manliness and courtesy to apologize 
to the counsel," 

" This case is now concluded," said his lordship ; "we 
will hear no more about it." 

By a curious coincidence Lord O'Brien figured promi- 
nently in a very remarkable incident that occurred just 
after my appointment to the position of County Court 
Judge. 

While I was on my first sessions Serjeant, then Mr. A. M., 
Sullivan, instructed by a solicitor named Mr. E. J. O'Meehan, 
applied, on behalf of Mr. Markham, a day labourer in Ennis, 
County Clare, to have my appointment annulled. The 
application was founded wholly on a very long, rambling 
affidavit purporting to have been sworn by this illiterate 
day labourer, setting forth in detail his reasons for suppos- 
ing that before my appointment I had retired from the Bar. 



348 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

He being admittedly unable to read or write, had his mark 
affixed, instead of his signature, to the document. 

It so chanced that the application was made in the court 
over which Lord Justice O'Brien presided. On the strength 
of Markham's affidavit he made a conditional order that 
cause should be shown why my appointment should not be 
annulled. When the case came again for hearing the 
following affidavit, filed by the same illiterate labourer, 
threw a curious light on the proceedings : — 

" I was working," he swore, " on the Inch Bridge Road 
a few miles from Ennis for my master, who is a road con- 
tractor. I returned to my house at Old Mill Street between 
six and six-thirty on that evening. A man named Joseph 
M'Inemey came into my house and said, ' You have a 
process got, haven't you, Stephen ? ' I said, ' To my know- 
ledge, I have no process.' When I said this my wife got up 
and said, ' You have.' Joseph M'Inerney said to me, ' Come 
down to Mr. O'Meehan,' as he (Mr. M'Inerney) guessed that 
Mr. O'Meehan had a couple of cases like it. I went down 
with Joseph M'Inerney to a public-house kept by Miss Lally 
in Jail Street. 

" When I sat down inside he came back, and when 
he returned he was accompanied by Mr. O'Meehan and 
Mr. Miniken, who is a Commissioner for Oaths. When Mr. 
O'Meehan came in he bid me the time of night and took the 
copy process which my wife had given to me. He then read 
a long scroll to me, and made some explanation about it. 
Until my wife told us in the presence of Mr. M'Inerney that 
a process had been served I knew nothing about the matter, 
as I never had any dealings with Griffin, the plaintiff, and I 
never knew that my wife had any dealings with him either. 
I was very angry with Griffin, as he had processed me with- 
out sending me any account, as I would have paid him by 
instalments, even if I had to deprive myself of tobacco to 
do so. 

" When Mr. O'Meehan read the scroll he made some 
explanation about it, but I thought it was about Griffin, the 
plaintiff in the process, as he had never given me any notice 
that I owed him any money before processing me, and 



APPOINTED A JUDGE 349 

I thought he should have come himself or sent a messenger 
before processing me for such a trifling sum. I never knew 
that the scroll read to me by Mr. O'Meehan, which I now 
know was an affidavit, had anything to do with Mr. Bodkin. 
I thought it had solely to do with Griffin, who had pro- 
cessed me. After Mr. O'Meehan had read the scroll to me 
I made an oath before the Commissioner, Mr. Miniken, and 
put my mark to the scroll, which I now know was an 
affidavit. After I had done this I had a pint of porter at 
Miss Lally's, and he had a small drink also ; I don't know 
what it was. I was surprised to hear a few days ago what 
was being done about Mr. Bodkin, the judge, as I never 
knew anything about Mr. Bodkin whatever, and I learn 
that there are rumours that I am to get something out of 
the case, which are wholly untrue. I can neither read nor 
write, and if I got a hundred pounds I would not knowingly 
have done what I am now told I have done. 

" I say most positively that I never authorized Mr. 
O'Meehan nor anyone else to take any proceedings with 
^reference to Mr. Bodkin, and I made an affidavit on the 
second of January in entire ignorance of what the real 
meaning was, as I understood it was made for the purpose 
of defending the process issued against me by Griffin, as I 
never knew that the debt was due or got any account, and 
I say that the said affidavit must have been prepared before 
I was consulted in any way about the matter, as Mr. 
O'Meehan had it ready for swearing when he came to Miss 
Lally's to me." 

On the reading of this affidavit Mr. A. M. Sullivan 
abruptly retired from the case, and the then Attorney- 
General, Lord Chief Justice Cherry, argued that there had 
been a gross abuse of the court. " A judge," he said, 
" properly appointed by the Lord-Lieutenant, had been sus- 
pended by his lordship on an affidavit of an illiterate 
labourer, which was plainly absurd on the face of it, and 
which was now sworn to be suborned. The Attorney- 
General demanded that the solicitor, O'Meehan, should, 
as an officer of the court, be called on for an explanation 
on oath. 



350 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

His lordship refused, on the ground that Mr. O'Meehan 
had made no affidavit, A second appHcation that Mr. 
Markham, who had made two affidavits, should be examined 
was refused on the ground that the case was at an end. 

Some injudicious Unionist asked the Irish Chief Secretary 
in the House of Commons if he could state what had induced 
Markham to make the affidavit, and Mr. Birrell promptly 
replied : 

" A pint of porter." 

The order having been duly discharged by the court that 
made it, I settled down quietly to my duties as County Court 
Judge of Clare. Some months later I met the Lord Chief 
Justice at a social function, and he very kindly congratulated 
me on my appointment. 



CHAPTER XL 
ON THE BENCH 

Dressed in a little brief authority — A trying position — Put yourself in his 
place — " Ordinary crime " extraordinary in Clare — Agrarian offences, 
the cause and the remedy — A wave of temperance — Two converts — 
" Always for life " — " My sowl's in your hands " — The Quilty heroes — • 
Knocking at the stage door — Beneficent legislation- — Labourers' cot- 
tages — Old Age Pensions — Demand for Home Rule undiminished — 
The good time coming. 

I WAS minded to bid the reader a cheerful good-bye as 
I stepped up to the Bench, but it was suggested to me 
that a few farewell words would not be out of place. Very 
briefly I will touch upon my sensations and experiences as 
a judge, and on the social and political changes I have seen 
during the period covered by my judicial recollections. As 
the ship that comes from the rough waters of the open sea 
to the calm of the landlocked harbour, I passed from the 
strain and stress of arduous work to the otium cum dignitate 
of the Bench. 

At first, indeed, my satisfaction was tempered by extreme 
nervousness. It is a very panicky sensation to sit in solitary 
state for the first time and lay down the law to an attentive 
court. 

The Irish County Court Judge, as ex-officio Chairman of 
Quarter Sessions, enjoys (or endures) a criminal jurisdiction 
that does not appertain to his brethren in England. Theo- 
retically, the magistrates who sit with him have an equal 
jurisdiction, but in practice they are accustomed to leave 
the conduct of the case and the amount of sentence follow- 
ing a conviction in the hands of the judge. "v 

This sense of power is bewildering to the novice. There 
is a man in the dock, a powerful young fellow, it may be, 
who, man to man, could crumple me up with his right hand, 

351 



352 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

and there I sit on the Bench the master of his Hberty. If I 
say he is to go to prison he must go, and he must stay in 
prison as long as I choose. For a judge who reahzes what 
imprisonment means it is a very worrying responsibihty 
this shutting a man out from all enjoyment, robbing him of 
a month, a year, five years of a life none too long at the 
best. The punishments I inflict are as light as the judicial 
conscience will allow ; if I err, it is on the side of mercy. 
Once I remember having sentenced a man to two months' 
imprisonment. Then, for some reason I have forgotten, I 
changed my mind and reduced it to a month, and as the 
words were spoken I realized with a start how much it meant 
to him. A few words of mine had saved him thirty long, 
wearisome days in prison ; had added thirty days to his life. 

Luckily for me, there is very little criminal business at 
the Clare Quarter Sessions. What is commonly called 
" ordinary crime " is extraordinary — is practically un- 
known in the County of Clare. Nearly every offence there 
has an agrarian flavour, but the worst form of agrarian 
offence, the injury to dumb beasts, has almost entirely 
disappeared. Even in the wildest times the amount and 
character of those offences were greatly exaggerated. 
" Cutting the tails off cattle " seems a blood-curdling 
crime. It was not until I came as County Court Judge to 
Clare that I discovered that " cutting the tails off cattle " 
meant, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, cutting off 
the long hair tassel that grows at the end of the tail. 

At present almost the only forms of agrarian " outrage " 
that come are the driving of cattle, the knocking down of 
fences or the burning of hay, for which I award compensa- 
tion out of the rates. From minute inquiries I am con- 
vinced that all these offences are committed, often through 
mere wantonness, by a very small number of people, and 
that there is no sympathy with the offenders amongst the 
people. It is true that there is much difficulty in finding 
evidence to convict the offender, even in those rare cases 
in which evidence is possible, but this arises more from 
instinct than from feeling. It is a survival of the bad old 
times when the people, not without reason, hated the law 




u 



ON THE BENCH 353 

as their persistent enemy, as the instrument of suffering 
and injustice, and it is pleasant to know that in a new and 
happier condition of things this instinct is fading from their 
minds. I look forward with confidence to seeing the people 
of Clare in the near future eager to assist the police in the 
enforcement of the law. 

For the last year or two a great wave of temperance has 
invaded the County of Clare, and, from what I can learn, 
other counties in Ireland have a similar experience. There 
are a variety of pledges, each with its appropriate badge — 
a cross, a shamrock or some other religious or patriotic 
device. Hardly a witness comes on the table before me 
that has not one or other of those little metal badges pinned 
to the lapel of his coat. I cannot readily distinguish one 
form of pledge from another, but to my mind the most 
ingenious of them all, and one of the most effective, is what 
is known as the " anti-treating " pledge. Irishmen don't 
care to drink alone, and when they drink together one man 
invariably " stands treat " and pays for the drinks of the 
party. The result is fatal to sobriety. A party of ten go 
together to a public-house. Each man in turn stands treat, 
so that in the end each man is compelled to swallow and 
pay for ten drinks when one was all he either required or 
desired. 

The " anti-treating " pledge is, however, for the pro- 
tection of the moderate drinker. It is recognized that tee- 
totalism is the only hope for a man who has once become 
addicted to drink, and even that security is not always 
sufficient. 

I had before me a man who had taken part in a drunken 
row, but who now appeared in the dock sporting a 
temperance badge. 

" I am glad," I said, as I let him off lightly, " to see you 
have taken the pledge." 

" I had it before that, too, your honour," he responded 
cheerily. 

" Well, this time I hope you have taken it for life." 

" Oh, your honour," he expostulated reproachfully, 
" sure, I always take it for life." 

2 A 



354 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

Yet another story which I heard on reliable authority 
seems to indicate that the Clare converts to temperance 
were occasionally disposed to " keep the word of promise 
to the lips and break it to the heart." 

An habitual drinker was inveigled by a zealous temper- 
ance advocate into a modified pledge that he would never 
take drink " inside the doors of a public-house." The 
alternative was supposed to be drinking at home, a practice 
which, it was anticipated, his wife would moderate or 
suppress. 

The pledge, however, proved wholly illusory. Sympa- 
thetic friends carried his drink out to him in the street 
before they had their own at the counter, and the last state 
of the man was worse than the first. He was persuaded 
at length to supplement his original pledge by a codicil 
which bound him to drink nothing " inside or outside a 
public-house," and for a time it worked like a charm. 

A little later some of his old friends met him prowling 
disconsolate down the street of his village. " Have a drink, 
Pat ? " one of them invited. 

" Sure, I have the pledge." 

" Don't I know that ? I'll bring it out to you the same 
as always." 

" It's no use, Mike. I have it on me now not to drink 
inside or outside." 

" Well, come and look at us, anyway." 

The convert consented, and he watched them with 
envious eyes put away their liquor at the counter. Then 
one of the party, inspired by mistaken benevolence, hit upon 
an ingenious idea. 

" What's your pledge, Pat ? " he asked in a voice that 
trembled with generous eagerness. " Not to drink inside 
nor outside a public-house ? " 

" That's it." 

" Begorra, there's a soft way out of that same. You 
stand on the j amb of the door, and you can take your drink 
with a clane conscience." 

The plan was hailed with acclamation, and the teetotaler 
balanced himself on the jamb of the door, which was steep 



ON THE BENCH 355 

and narrow. To make quite sure, one of the party knelt at 
his feet to steady him on his precarious foothold. The 
teetotaler trembled as the tempting glass was raised to his 
lips. 

" Howld hard, Darby," he whispered entreatingly to the 
man at his feet, " howld hard, for the love of heaven ; my 
sowl's in your hands," 

The " Quilty heroes" were, however, more strenuous and 
steadfast in their good resolve. It is by this title the inhabi- 
tants of a little village on the sea-coast of Clare are known, 
and the title has been honourably earned by a display of 
heroic courage. 

In October, 1907, a tremendous hurricane drove the 
French vessel Leon XIII on the rocks close to the village of 
Quilty ; there she stuck fast while the huge waves kept 
battering her to pieces and her famished and shivering crew 
climbed into the rigging. All day they were seen from the 
shore appealing for aid ; all night their cries were heard 
above the roar of the wind and waves. The little village 
was in a state of frantic excitement. Three times the life- 
boats put out to the rescue, and three times were compelled 
to return in despair. 

Then the " Quilty heroes " took the matter in hand. The 
coracle, or fishing-boat, of the Clare fishermen is a frail 
structure of tarred canvas stretched on a light wooden 
frame, too frail, it would seem, to the ignorant to float in a 
pond. In these coracles the " Quilty heroes " braved the 
huge breakers of the storm-tossed Atlantic and brought the 
helpless crew by twos and threes from the wreck to the 
shore. 

There is a vivid description of the rescue by the captain 
of the French vessel, who lay with a broken leg on the wave- 
washed deck while the heroic work of rescue was in pro- 
gress. " There shall always live in my remembrance," 
Captain Lucas said, " the bravery of those Clare fishermen. 
How can I describe its magnificence ? Ah, they are brave ! 
They put out in their little canoes time after time, and the 
waves rolled over them and seemed every moment to 
engulf them. At one moment they rode over the white 



356 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

crests buoyantly and bravely, another moment they were 
plunged down into a great valley of water. Ah ! then we 
on the wreck cried, ' All is over/ but on they came again, 
nothing daunted. How they came in the teeth of that 
treacherous sea was only known to their own intrepid 
souls." 

Once, indeed, a coracle was capsized, and its crew was 
spilt into the boiling sea. A wail went up from their women- 
kind lining the shore, but the stout-hearted fishermen 
somehow managed to struggle to land, emptied their 
coracle and instantly put out again through the storm to 
the wreck. The " Quilty heroes," with their coracles, 
marched at the head of the great lifeboat procession in 
Dublin, and they were decorated by the Government of 
France. 

The first time I made the personal acquaintance of the 
Quilty men in court was on an application for compensa- 
tion by an assaulted police-sergeant. To save a life or beat 
a policeman was all in the day's work at Quilty, 

Later on a great wave of temperance broke with over- 
whelming force over the village. The heroes were all 
submerged. To a man they took the pledge, and kept it 
with religious fidelity. One fisherman only broke down, 
and when the backslider was on a fishing expedition with 
his mates the news of his lapse leaked out. Forthwith the 
unhappy Jonah was heaved overboard to swim ashore. 
Next day he took the pledge again and kept it. 

Though I have never as much as written a two-line 
business letter on the Bench, having to concentrate my 
whole attention on evidence that is often conflicting and 
almost always confusing, yet my judicial duties, I am glad 
to say, have left me spare time for literary work which has 
this special advantage, that it can be fitted into the crevices 
of other occupations. Of late I have begun to knock pretty 
strenuously, though so far unsuccessfully, at the stage door. 
I have written several plays, which I am religiously con- 
vinced are better than my stories, and I have found one' 
distinguished and delightful dramatic agent to hold the 
same view. But, unhappily, while I can readily get my 




c 



ON THE BENCH 357 

stories published I cannot get my plays acted. I am fully 
aware that actor-managers, by whom my work is so 
courteously restored to the author, are overwhelmed by an 
ever-flowing tide of MSS. and that their lives are too short 
to read even the titles of the numerous plays submitted to 
their judgment, so I still flatter my vanity by the assurance 
that my plays are unappreciated only because they are 
unread. 

If literary work has its occasional disappointments, there 
are no thorns in the cushion of the Bench. An Irish judge 
can flatter himself his life is useful as it is pleasant. He can 
do much to restore confidence in the law which has hereto- 
fore been lacking amongst the people. The Irish litigant 
is a keen fighter, but he is a good loser. All he asks is a 
full and fair hearing. I believe I am specially fortunate in 
the ability and kindliness of the solicitors and counsel who 
practise before me. We are a happy family in Clare, and 
our business is lightened by unfailing courtesy and good- 
humour. Self-exiled from the exciting arena of politics in 
which, for so many years, I played a humble part, I 
cannot restrain an occasional glance from outside the 
railings at the progress of the game, nor wholly subdue my 
interest in the team of which I was once a member. 

No form of legislation has done more for the very poorest 
class of the rural population than the provisions for 
Labourers' Cottages and Old Age Pensions. The old people 
of Ireland are wonderfully self-sacrificing. I have already 
written that a marriage among the farming class is what 
the Americans call a business proposition. The bride 
" marries into a farm," which is made over by his parents 
to the eldest son. The bride's fortune is divided amongst 
the younger sons, and by this means they are often able, 
in their turn, to buy themselves a bride with " a bit of land 
of her own." At the same time, the old people, surrendering 
their rights in the land, are provided for by an elaborate 
agreement which secures for them various privileges, 
popularly called " liberties," in their abandoned holding. 
It is provided, for example, that they are " to have their 
support the same as the family, the exclusive enjoyment of 



358 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 

the west room of the house with the use of the kitchen fire." 
" The grass of a cow wet and dry and half an acre of ' mock ' 
(land made ready for tillage), with manure for the same." 
These are the usual liberties. But these liberties are the 
subjects of endless litigation, arising, for the most part, 
from strained relations between mother-in-law and daughter- 
in-law. There is constant war between the west room and 
the rest of the cabin when the rival forces meet at the 
kitchen fire. In one case there were a succession of equity 
processes for the specific performance of a marriage settle- 
ment providing the " liberty " of a stone of good potatoes 
every week. Each succeeding session a battalion of 
witnesses testified to the perfect soundness and to the com- 
plete rottenness of those potatoes, and my impartial 
predecessor seems to have decided turn about in favour 
of one side or the other. When I suggested the simple plan 
of allowing and accepting the money value instead of the 
potatoes, both parties jumped at the suggestion, and a feud 
as bitter as the Montagues and Capulets was ended at a word. 
The right to cut three-farthings' worth of rushes on the bank 
of a stream has been made in my court the pretext for a 
protracted and costly litigation ; for Irish litigants " bravely 
find quarrel in a straw where honour is at stake." 

But I am wandering from the subject of Old Age Pensions. 
In former days when an old farmer, like King Lear, sur- 
rendered his kingdom, he was sometimes evilly treated by 
ungrateful children. The Old Age Pension — ^hard cash paid 
regularly — ^makes him the capitalist of the family, for whose 
favours there is often the keenest competition. 

The provision for building labourers' cottages has 
proved equally salutary. The Irish peasant was, as General 
Buller once declared, the worst-housed human being in any 
quarter of the habitable globe. His home was a mud hovel 
of which a respectable pig would be ashamed. Now the 
legislation and the local bodies combine to provide him 
with a pretty comfortable cottage and an acre of land at the 
average rent of one and sixpence a week, less than a sweated 
artisan pays for a squalid room in some filthy slum. There 
is no part of a County Court judge's duty more pleasant 



ON THE BENCH 359 

than the administration of this Act. The countryside is 
dotted over with those pretty Httle cottages, often em- 
bov/ered in roses, with a well-fenced acre of well-tilled land 
in the rear. Nor is it the labourer alone whose way of living 
is improved. The farmer, now, for the most part, owner of 
his own land, is ashamed to be worse housed than the 
worker on his farm, and so the standard of comfort is raised 
all round. 

But the change for the better in the condition of the 
people has not, so far as I can judge, in the faintest degree 
weakened the passionate resolve that inspired the century- 
long struggle for the restoration of the Irish Parliament, 
destroyed by what Mr. Gladstone described as " the baseness 
and blackguardism of the Union." I have lived through 
sad and strenuous days, when tenant's right was styled land- 
lord's wrong, when the tillers of the soil had no greater fixture 
of tenure than trespassing cattle and were evicted with as 
little consideration, when the profit or the whim of the 
landlord was the law of the land. I have known cases where 
a notice to quit was printed on the back of the rent receipt to 
keep the tenant in absolute bondage. As a boy in the days 
of the Fenian rising I have seen elder schoolfellows carted 
away to prison for a generous revolt against an oppression 
that was unendurable. Personally, I have played a humble 
part in the land agitation and the national agitation of later 
years, and of late, from the post of vantage of the hurler on 
the ditch, I have watched the progress of the game with 
cooler and more deliberate judgment. I find the national 
aspirations as keen as ever, but I find a kindlier feeling 
pervading all classes of Irishmen. 

For myself my hope is that I shall live to administer the 
laws of an Irish legislature in which Irishmen of all classes 
and creeds will combine to promote the prosperity of their 
common country. 



INDEX 



Abercorn, Duke of, 37 

Adams, Judge, 30, 51 et sq., 95, 107, 

254 et sq. 
Agricultural Society, Royal, 37 
Alexander, Dr., Primate of Ireland, 

40 
Andrews, Judge, 163 
Anne, Queen, 217-18 
Armstrong, Mr. Serjeant, 10 et sq. 
Asquith, Right Hon. H. H., 192, 

230, 242 

Balfour, Right Hon. A. J., 153, 
204, 212, 220 

and Father Healy, 67 

and Coercion campaign, 149, 
150, 159, 160, 342 

and the Peggy Dillon libel action, 
162 et sq. 

in debate, 225-6, 237 et sq. 

his personal charm, 235 

his imperturbability, 293-4 
Barlow, Jane, 277-8 
Barnes, Mr., 338 
Barrett, Wilson, 300-1 
Barry, Lord Justice, 131 e^ sq. 
Barton, Mr. Justice, 238 
Beaconsfield, Benjamin Disraeli, 

Earl of, 62, 170, 270 
Benson, F. R., 286 
Biggar, m.p., Joseph G., 171, 207 
Bismarck, Prince von, 170, 270, 

272 
Blake, Hon. Mr. Edward, 237 
Blaine, Mr., 335 
Blunt, Mr. Wilfrid Scawen, 155, 

159, 160 
Bodkin, Dr. (father of the author), 

2 et sq., 13-14 
Bodkin, m.p., John, 6 et sq. 
Bodkin, k.c, M. M'Donnell, Judge, 

Prefatory remarks i, 2 

concerning the 12 Tribes of 
Gal way, 2, 3 

his parentage, 3 

early recollections, 13 et sq. 

his education, 15 et sq. 



Bodkin, k.c, M. M'Donnell, Judge, 
on sectarianism, is et sq. 
and the eviction of the Christian 

Brothers, ly et sq. 
his first pamphlet, 23-4 
enters for the Bar, 26 
on the reporting staff of the 

Freeman' s Journal, 26 et sq. 
attends Protestant Synod, 39, 40 
reports inquest and execution, 

42 et sq. 
on Judge Adams, 52 et sq. 
on Father James Healy, 62 

et sq. 
on Father Tom Burke, 71 e^ sq. 
working for the Bar, 83 et sq. 
called to the Bar, 84 
the " Four Courts," 85 et sq. 
on Frank McDonagh, g.c, 94 

et sq. 
on an old " junior," 108 et sq. 
on Jsaac Butt, iii et sq. 
on Baron Dowse, iij et sq. 
on Lord Morris, 122 et sq. 
on Judge Murphy, 126 et sq. 
on Lord Justice Barry, 13 1-2 
on Lord Chief Justice Whiteside, 

133-4 
on Judge Webb, 134-5 
on Lord Chancellor Sullivan, 135 

et sq. 
on Judge Monroe, 137-8 
on Lord Justice Holmes, 139 
experiences at the Bar, 140 et sq. 
on William O'Brien, 147 et sq. 
becomes Editor of United Ireland, 

147 et sq. 
on The Times Commission, 153—4 
on Coercion, 154 et sq. 
and the Balfour libel action, 162 

et sq. 
on Pamell, 168 et sq. 
disagreement with Parnell, 174 
conducts Suppressed United 

Ireland, 175 et sq. 
contests North Roscommon, 179 

et sq. 



361 



362 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 



Bodkin, k.c, M. M'Donnell, Judge, 
wins the contest, 187 
first appearance in the House, 189 
on Mr. Gladstone, 190, 196, 205- 

6, 209, 213, 224 et sq. 
and Mr. Asquith, 192, 230 
a stormy debate, 191 et sq. 
second introduction of Home 

Rule Bill by Mr. Gladstone. 

194 et sq. 
customs of the House, 198 et sq., 

205 et sq. 
ladies in the House, 212 e^ sq. 
his first speech, 216 et sq. 
wild scene in the House, 218 

et sq. 
Home Rule Bill carried, 222-3 
some orators, 230 et sq. 
portraits from memory, 233 

et sq. 
general election, 243 
retires from Parliament, 243-4 
editorial work on Freeman's 

Journal, 245 et sq. 
on Sir Hugh Lane and Captain 

Shaw Taylor, 252 et sq. 
his friendship with Mr. J. B. 

Dunlop, 258 et sq. 
a visit to Mr. Justin McCarthy, 

268 et sq. 
as a reviewer, 276 et sq. 
on a generation of actors, 281 

et sq., 291 et sq., 300 et sq. 
on some Hamlets, 286 et sq. 
an audience with Leo XIII, 

309-10 
invited to participate in the 

World's Press Parliament at 

the St. Louis Exposition, 310 

et sq. 
meets Rear-Admiral Melville, 

311 et sq. 
at the World's Press Parliament, 

317 et sq. 
impressions of Niagara, 323 et sq. 
a visit to Mr. Burke-Cockran, 

331 et sq. 
visits Washington, 336 et sq. 
impressions of President Roose- 
velt, 338 et sq. 
on Lord O'Brien of Kilfenora, 

342 et sq. 
appointed County Court Judge 

of Clare, 350 et sq. 
Bolton, Mr., 209-10 
Booth, Junius Brutus, 286 
Boswell, James, 213 
Bradlaugh, m.p., Charles, 199 



Brayden, W. F., 245, 250 

Bright, Right Hon. John, 27a 

et sq. 
Brown and Sons, Messrs., 258 
Browning, Robert, 270, 272, 335 
Bryce, Mr., 335 
Burke, Miss Bedelia, 72 et sq. 
Burke, Rev. Joseph, 70 
Burke, Miss Norah, 74 
Burke, Father Tom, 2, 25, 71 et sq. 
Burke, Mr., 11 
Burke-Cockran, Mr., 331 et sq.^ 

337-8 
Butler, Lord James, 40 
Butt, Isaac, 105, 11 1 et sq. 
Buxton, Right Hon. Sydney C, 232 



Campbell, K.c, Mr. James, 2 
Campbell-Bannerman, Right Hon. 

Sir Henry, 249, 250 
Capel, Mgr., 27 
Carson, Sir Edward, 342 
Carte, D'Oyly, 302 
Cavour, Count, 170 
Chamberlain, Right Hon. Austen, 

221, 235-6 
Chamberlain, Right Hon. Joseph, 

205, 218 et sq., 225 et sq., 235-6^ 

269 
Chapman and Hall, Messrs., 279 
Charles II, 202 

Cherry, Lord Chief Justice, 349 
Christian Brothers' School, ij et sq.. 
Churchill, Lord Randolph, 24, 62, 

70 
Clanricarde, Marquis of, 150, 156,. 

342-5 
Clarke, Sir Edward, 197 
Cobb, M.P., Mr., 233 
Cobden, Richard, 270 
Coercion Act, 151, 154 et sq., 171 

et sq., 339 
Collings, M.P., Right Hon. Jesse^ 

225 
Connaught, King of, 2, 3 
Cooper, Fenimore, 14 
Coquelin, B. Constant, 293, 298 
Corbet, Jem, 250 
Corot, 256-7 

Corrigan, Sir Dominick, 4 et sq. 
Courtown, Lord, 155 
Cox, M.P., Mr., 158 
Crawford, Mr. Oswald, 279 
Crean, m.p., Mr., 221 
Cullen, Cardinal, 115 
Curran, John Philpot, 69, 98 
Curzon, Lord, 231 



INDEX 



363 



Daily Globe Democrat (St. Louis), 

318-19 
Daily News, 241 
Daily Telegraph, 279 
D'Arcy, Miss, 12 
Davitt, Michael, 155, 238, 340 
Delaney, Father WilUam, s.j., 20 

et sq. 
Devonshire, Duke of, 216 
Dickens, Charles, 26, 246, 270 
Dillon, M.P., John, 2, 95, 171, 173, 

237, 242, 331 
Dillon, Peggy, 162 et sq. 
Donnelly, Mr., 151, 153 
Doo Castle, 6 et sq. 
Down Recorder, 246 
Dowse, Baron, 99, iij et sq. 
Doyle, A. Conan, 278 
Dublin, 47, 49, 83, 95, 117, 135, 

156, 161, 167, 172, 174, 188, 240, 

252, 257, 281 
Du Cros, Alfred, 262-3 
Du Cros, Arthur, 262-3 
Du Cros, Harvey, 262-3 
Dudley, Lord, 306 
Duggan, Bp., 4-5, 26, 161 
Dunlop, J. B., 258 et sq. 
Dunlop, Mrs. J. B., 265-6 

Edward VII, 61, 247 et sq. 

Eliot, George, 270 

Elhs, M.P., Mr. Tom, 234-5 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 241, 270 

Emmet, Dr., 339 

Erskine, Thomas, Lord, 230 

Faucit, Helen, 284 

Finlay, Fr. Tom, 22-3 

Fisher, m.p., Mr., 220 

Fitzgerald, Judge, 95 

Fitzgibbon, Lord Justice, 40, 70, 

87 
Fitzpatrick, Mr., 72 
Forbes-Robertson, Sir Johnston, 

286 et sq. 
Forster, m.p., Mr. Harry, 239 
Four Courts, Dublin, The, 85 et sq., 

124. 133 
Fraser, Mr., 108 et sq. 
Freeman's Journal, 26 et sq., 48, 

147 et sq., 152, 164, 169, 170, 

177 et sq., 245 et sq., 268, 276, 

342 et sq. 
Fry's Magazine, 240 

Gallagher, John B., 30 ef sq., 40-1 



Galway, 2 et sq., 65, 72 et sq., 100, 
103, 141, 160, 169 et sq., 243, 255 

Gardiner, Mrs. Jack, 332, 334-5 

Garfield, President, 328 

George V, 256, 297 

George, Right Hon. Lloyd, 232 

Gibbs, M.P., Mr. Vicary, 220, 239 

Gilbert, William, 301 et sq. 

Gill, M.P., T. P., 15S et sq. 

Gladstone, Herbert, Lord, 213, 
229 

Gladstone, Right Hon. W. E., i, 
62, 170, 209, 233, 270, 335 
Isaac Butt compared to, 112 
and Home Rule, 168, 194, ig6, 

204, 218, 242, 248-9, 359 
and the Parnell split, 172, 191 
Judge Bodkin's first impression 

of, 190 
his marvellous powers of oratory, 

196, 206 
and the scrimmage in the House, 

221 
Home Rule Bill carried, 222 
Judge Bodkin on, 224 et sq. 
Morley's Life of, 339 

Gladstone, Mrs. W. E., 213 

Glancey, Mr. John, 174 

Glynn, Prior, 309-10 

Goldsmith, Oliver, 217 

Gregory, Lady, 340 

Grossmith, George, 33, 282-3, 300 
et sq. 

Guinee, Mr., 30 

Gunn, Mr., 302 



Hamilton, Captain, 155 
Hanbury, Right Hon. R. W., 204 
Harcourt, Sir William, Bart., 225, 

229, 239 

Hare, Sir John, 297 et sq. 
Harper's Magazine, 272 
Harris, Mathew, 171 
Hartington, Lord. See Devonshire, 

Duke of 
Harvey, Martin, 286, 290, 304-5 
Haughton, Prof., 22, 41 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 241 
Hay, Hon. John, 317 e^ sq. 
Hayes, President, 328 
Healy, Father James, 62 et sq., 75 
Healy, Timothy M., 157, 160-1, 

171-2, 175 et sq., 205-6, 216, 

230, 238-9 
Hewlett, Maurice, 276 
Hoban, John, 338 
Holmes, Lord Justice, 139 



364 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 



Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 203, 241, 

270, 278 
Home Rule, Irish, 83, iii, 113, 122, 

147, 168, 191 et sq., 229, 231—2, 

240 et sq., 249 et sq., 270, 275, 

339 et sq. 
Hooper, Mr. John, Mayor of Cork, 

151 
Houghton, Lord, 37 
Hume, Bill, 262-3 



Ino Herado, 320 
Insuppressible, 175 et sq. 
Irish Catholic, 175 
Irving, Sir Henry, 283 et sq., 289, 
300-8 



Jackson, q.c, Mr., 137-8 

James of Hereford, Lord, iii, 

231 
Jefferson, Joseph, 298-9 
Johns, Mr., 321 
Johnson, Dr., 22 

Johnson, m.p., Mr. William, 208-9, 
. 239 
Jordan, Mr. J., 172 



Kaye, Sir William, 165 
Keogh, Judge, 65, 87, 347 
Killanin, Lord, 122 
King, Tom, 286 
Kubelik, 305-6 



Labouchere, m.p., Henry, 209-10, 

231, 234 et sq. 
Land League, 47, 95 
Lane, Sir Hugh, 252 et sq. 
Law, Hugh, Lord Chancellor of 

Ireland, 95 
Lawless, Hon. Emily, 340 
Leamy, m.p., Mr., 156, 174 
Lecky, Right Hon. W. E. H., 340 
Lefroy, Mr., 30 
Leo XIII, 2, 309-10, 340 
Lever, Charles, 112, 164 
Limerick, 51 et sq. 
Lincoln, Abraham, 170 
Lipton, Sir Thomas, 249 
Little Folks, 328 
Logan, M.P., Mr., 320 
Longfellow, H. W., 241, 271 
Lowe, Rev. Brother, 19, 20 
Lowell, James Russell, 241, 270 



Macaulay, Lord, 25, 303 
McCabe, Cardinal, 63-4 
McCarthy, Miss, 269 
McCarthy, m.p., Justin, 2, 173, 236, 

240 et sq., 268 et sq., 279, 338, 340 
McCarthy, Justin Huntly, 275 
MacDermot, g.c.'. The, 343 et sq. 
McDonagh, g.c, Frank, 91-2, 94 

et sq. 
McDonnell, m.p., Joe, 6, 8 et sq. 
McHale, Archbishop, 17, 103 
MacNeill, m.p., Mr. Swift, 236 
McTiernan, Captain, 183-4 
McWeeney, Theophilus, 32-3 
Majoribanks, m.p., Mr., 234-5 
Manning, Cardinal, 75 
Markham, Mr., 347 et sq. 
Marlborough, Seventh Duke of, 24 
Mass}?-, General, 60 
May, O., 36 et sq. 
Meehan, Father, 66 
Meldon, Mr., 6 

Melville, Rear- Admiral, 311 et sq. 
Midleton, Lord, 237 
Mill, John Stuart, 270 et sq. 
Millar, m.p., Mr., 237 
Molloy, Rev. Mgr.," 22 
Monroe, Judge, 137 
Moore, Thomas, 69, 171, 208 
Morley, Viscount, 172, 213, 225-6, 

231, 243, 271, 339 
Morris, Lord, 100, 122 et sq. 
Mountjo}^, Lord, 7, 85, 148 
Moylan, Rev. Brother, 20 
Mulligan, Peter, 135 
Murphy, Judge, 99, 126 et sq. 
Murphy, Mr. William, 175-6 ' 



Napoleon, 274 

National League, 151, 160 et sq. 
National and Liberal Club, 51 
National Press, 177—8 
Newman, Cardinal, 25 
Niagara Falls, 323 et sq. 
NichoUs, Mr. Harry, 306 
Nobokoff, Lio, 320 
Norberry, Lord, 98 
Nordenadler, Mme. Ebba, 280 
North American Review, 335 
North Roscommon, electioneering 
at, 179 et sq. 



O'Brien of Kilfenora, Lord, 156, 

343 et sq. 
O'Brien, Peter, Lord Chief Justice 

of Ireland, 95 



INDEX 



365 



O'Brien, m.p., William, 2, 147 et sq., 

160 et sq., 170 et sq., 237 
O'Connell, m.p., Daniel, 69, 98, 

103, iio-ii, 168 
O'Connor, Mr. H., 176 
O'Connor, m.p., T. P., 2, 219 
O'Dwyer, Mr., 175 
O'Kelly, Ja.mes, 180, 186-7 
Old Age Pensions, 357 et sq. 
O'Mahony, Mr. Pierce, 174 
O'Maley, Mr. Charles, 120, 126 

et sq. 
O'Malley, Charles, 256 
O'Meara, Mr. Thomas, 140, 145 
O'Meehan, Mr. E. J., 347 
O'Shea, Captain, 171, 172 et sq. 
Osnian Pasha, 46-7 

Pallas, Chief Baron, 124, 343 
Parker, Chief Justice, 315 
Parnell, Charles Stuart, 2, iii, 246, 

34° 
supported by the Freeman s 

Journal, 32 
a journalistic hoax, 47 et sq. 
charged with conspiracy, 95 
and the founding of United 

Ireland, 147 
and the Times Commission, 

153-4. 230 
his power in Ireland, 168, 170 
his first speech, i6g 
his oratory, 169 et sq. 
the O'Shea case, 171 et sq., 293 
the opposition of United Ireland, 

172 et sq. 
Miss McCarthy's sketch of, 275 

Peel, Arthur Wellesley, Viscount 
(Speaker of the House of Com- 
mons), 193, 197 et sq., 206, 208 
et sq., 215 et sq., 222, 236, 239 

Petre, Lord, 23 

Phoenix Park, 153 

Pigott, Richard, 154 

Pius IX, 10 

Plunkett, Archbishop, 17, 40 

Post Dispatch, 321 

Punch, 303 

Quilty, 355-6 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, 166 
Reid, Mayne, 14 
Ridley, Mr., 233 et sq. 
Rigby, Mr., 46 

Roosevelt, Theodore, 2, 315, 339 
et sq. 



Rosebery, Lord, 242, 249, 250 

Rousbey, Mr., 307 

Russell of Killowen, Lord, 24, iii, 

230-1 
Russell, Lord John, 270, 273-4 
Russell, Lady John, 273 
Russo-Japanese War, 312 et sq. 



St. Louis Universal Exposition, 
310 et sq. 

Salisbury, James, 4th Marquis of, 
201 

Salisbury, Robert Cecil, 3rd Mar- 
quis of, 62, 172 

Salvini, Tomasso, 288, 298 

Saunderson, m.p.. Colonel, 221 

Savage Club, 2S3 

Scott, Sir Walter, 303 

Selborne, Lord, 237 

Seymore, Rev., 15 et sq. 

Sexton, M.P., Mr. Thomas, 95, 225, 
236-7, 241-2, 249, 268 

Shakespeare, 282, 289 et sq., 305 

Shaw, G. B., 290 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 2S2 

Sherman, General, 332 

Silberrad, Una, 276-7 

Sligo, 156 

Smith, Rev. Sydney, 65 

Sothern, Edward Askew, 281-2 

Speaker of the House of Commons. 
See Peel 

Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 303 

Sullivan, Serjeant A. M., 347 et sq., 

349 
Sullivan, Barry, 283-4, 286, 289, 

308 
Sullivan, Lord Chancellor, 135 et sq. 
Sullivan, T. D., Lord Mayor of 

Dublin, 151, 172 
Swift, Dean, 69 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 270 



Tanner, m.p.. Dr., 121, 193, 199 
Taylor, Captain Shaw, 252 et sq. 
Taylor, m.p.. Colonel, 169 
Tennyson, Lord, 270, 272, 305 
Terris, William, 306 
Thackeray, W. M., 270 
Times, The, 153-4, 168 
Times Commission, 153, 168 
Todd, Burns and Co., 258-9 
Tree, Sir H. Beerbohm, 286, 289, 

292 et sq., 298, 300-1 
Tree, Lady, 293 
Trevelyan, Sir George, 236 



366 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN IRISH JUDGE 



Trinity College, Dublin, 25, 167, 

284 
Tuam, 8, 13 et sq., 243 
TuUabeg College, 26 et sq. 
Tully, Mr. Jasper, 343 

United Ireland, 147 ei sq., 165, 171 
ei sq., 278 

Vane, Sir Harry, 218 
Victoria, Queen, 217-18, 328 

Walker, Samuel, Lord Chancellor 

of Ireland, 95 
Wallace, Sir William, 262 
Waller, Lewis, 295 et sq. 
Walsh, Fr. Charles, 23 



Warren, Judge, 97 
Washington, S. C, 336 et sq. 
Webb, Captain, 326 
Webb, Judge, 134-5 
Wellington, Duke of, 274 
Wells, H. G., 313 
Wexford, 155 
Whiteside, Lord Chief Justice, 

133-4 
Wicklow, 169 
Wilde, Oscar, 311 
Wilkins, Miss Mary, 323 
Wodehouse, Lord, 35-6 
Woodlock, Mgr., 30 
Wordsworth, William, 211 
World's Press Parliament, 310, 

317 et sq. 
Wyndham, Sir Charles, 296 



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